


What it Means to Disappear

by SpaceCaseWriter13



Series: Find Your Way Home [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Disordered Eating, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Medical Torture, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-02-28 04:09:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 103,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceCaseWriter13/pseuds/SpaceCaseWriter13
Summary: A month after narrowly escaping death at the hands of Hydra, Magdalene “Maggie” Ramirez is on the hunt for the elusive James Barnes, A.K.A. The Winter Soldier. Working with Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers, and a reluctant Natasha Romanoff, Maggie is looking not just for answers but also for a way back to her old life. Meanwhile still on the run, Bucky Barnes is trying to lay low and piece his mind back together after a lifetime of mind control and torture. Will they find what they are looking for? Or will they have to settle for finding out what it means to disappear?





	1. When Flying is Just Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me!
> 
> A/N: This is the sequel to ‘On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused that’s why.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen, Yellow Ledbetter by Pearl Jam, and Under the Bridge by Red Hot Chili Peppers
> 
> Enjoy!

 

_ She was flying, her body weightless and nimble as she soared through the clear blue sky. The wind washed around her warm and sweet. Higher and higher she soared, feeling the exhilaration of the height and speed and breathless delight. “Come down, Mags.” _

_ She paused, looking around. “Riley?”  _

_ “Come down, Mags.”  _

_ “Riley? Riley? Where are you?” She looked down. Below, far below her, he was there. He was there at the ranch. At their ranch, by the barn looking up at her, his face bent in worry and care. _

_ “Mags...Mags please we don’t have much time.” Riley called. He was wearing his fatigues, his bags were packed. He was leaving, he was leaving for his deployment. “Mags, we don’t have much time.”  _

_ “Riley.” Her voice was swept away by the wind.  _

_ And now she could smell the smoke. The wind turned hot, smoke rising in the air, billowing in thick black coils around her, choking her lungs, making her eyes sting. She looked down the barn was on fire, the horses were screaming, trying to break out of their stalls. She looked to her wings, they were on fire. Pain. Pain seared through her hands up into her arms and spread all over her body. _

_ And she was back in the kitchen. _

_ Smoke, smoke was everywhere. Filling the kitchen, and her lungs, making her eyes sting and her chest ache as she tried to catch her breath. She couldn’t move. She was tied down. She wriggled her right hand and wrist, trying to wrench free from the zip ties. Her left hand and wrist were swelling rapidly, the zip ties pinching and cutting into her skin. _

_  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him. Matt…James…The Winter Soldier. Just standing there, watching her as she struggled. ‘Help me!’ She tried to scream, but it came out in a muted, almost hoarse whisper. ‘Help!’ _

_ He stood there, motionless, those piercing blue eyes boring holes into her as flames lapped at the support beams and studs of the kitchen. She could hear crashing around her, things sparking and snapping and collapsing as the fire consumed them, consumed her life. _

_ ‘H _ _ elp me!’ She tried again, her voice choked by the smoke, her head spinning, vision blurring. _

_ ‘Mags! Mag’s we’re coming!’ Sam rushed in, followed by Steve, but stopped before they could cut her from the chair. “Where is he?” Steve asked gravely. _

_ “He’s right there!” She tried to scream. “Please help me.” Her voice was trapped, caught in her throat. _

_ They glanced back where she had motioned, but he was gone. “Mags, where did he go?” _

_ ‘Where did he go?’ _

__ _ Where did he go?’ _

_ ‘Where did he go?’ _

_ Their voices echoed a thousand times, as the smoke and flames overtook her, as she tried to free herself, her voice muffled even as she screamed, screamed for someone to hear her, screamed for someone to free her, to rescue her. _

_ Then there was nothing but darkness as the voices continued. ‘Where did he go? Where did he go?’ _

Maggie Ramirez jerked awake. Heart pounding, chest heaving, she gulped down air, tears streaming down her face as she tried to ground herself in space and time. She wasn’t at the ranch, she wasn’t suffocating, she wasn’t tied to a chair, Hydra wasn’t actively trying to kill her at the moment. She was safe on the 82nd floor of the Stark Tower.

Barely fighting back sobs, she wiped at her face with the right sleeve of her hoodie and yanked off her headphones, the Russian language podcast still playing seeping into the otherwise quiet office. She glanced around. It was all here still. The office with the grubby, stained, lumpy second-hand couch, suspiciously IKEA looking desk, bookshelves and work tables, the large world map she’d plastered on the wall. The stack of language software and the various files and Intel that Sam had collected. All of it still there.

Her whole body still shaking, Maggie sighed, sitting up, adjusting the sling around her neck, and cleared away the Russian textbook and Russian-English dictionary off her lap, and the photocopied documents she’d been working through.

It had been a month since Hydra had come, tortured her, burned her home to the ground, and she’d only narrowly escaped death thanks to Sam Wilson. It had been six weeks, nearly to the day since James Barnes had stumbled onto her property and into her life. One month since her world had ended and she’d agreed to help them track down the man partially responsible for the collapse of her life. One month and they were going nowhere slowly. Maggie turned, glancing over the back of the couch to the massive world map she’d plastered to the wall. Two red pins stuck into the east coast, the only known and confirmed sightings of James Barnes. There were orange pins, white pins, and green pins scattered around the world: points of interest, possible leads, known safe houses. There were also the dreaded black pins, which indicated dead ends. The black pins were starting to become more numerous than Maggie cared to think, while the red pins remained fixed: Washington D.C. and Last Chance Ranch.

Stark had offered her more technologically advanced methods, but she liked her pins in the wall map. She’d let Sam and Steve work with technology. She was going to work this problem the old fashioned way. Which was why she’d fallen asleep on the lumpy second-hand sofa she’d bought of craigslist, trying to brush up on her Russian so she could work through the files on the Winter Soldier.  _ Why couldn’t he have been held hostage by the Mexican cartels or ANY number of Spanish speaking countries it would make this whole thing so much easier. _

There was a soft buzz, and Maggie pulled her phone from her hoodie pocket and read the message that had just appeared.  _ Morning brief at your place in ten. _

“Thanks, Sammie,” She moaned, pulling herself up off the couch, and padded her way to the kitchen. A magnificent, multi-million dollar view of the Manhattan skyline greeted her from the floor to ceiling windows, the sun shining in. “Fuck off.” She muttered as she started putting together coffee in the glass percolator.

She and Sam had been given the keys to the apartment and free access to the Avengers facilities. Free of charge, which was pretty generous of Tony Stark.  _ Consider it a perk. _  At least that’s what Sam had said. Personally, Maggie wondered what Steve had told Stark to convince him to let this random nobody move in without so much as paying a cent in a deposit. Then again, this  _ was _  Captain America they were talking about. The man could read his grocery list by way of a motivational speech, and people would still follow him to the gate of hell and back. It probably hadn’t taken much in the way of arm twisting.

However, oddly enough, since she’d arrived at the tower, he’d been very firmly  _ Steve. _  He’d helped her move in her few remaining personal possessions from the fire, and even lugged the aforementioned lumpy sofa into the apartment for her. He’d invited her to dinner with the team, and helped her with her groceries, and had just been an all-around  _ regular _  dude. Well, as regular as a dude from the 1940s could be when they were tracking down a man also from the 1940s who’d been trained by a Nazi organization to destabilize and destroy the world order as they knew it. Oh, and of course, this was the same man who’d also spent nearly two weeks hanging out on her ranch while hiding out from said Nazi organization. It was a lot to swallow.

Maggie wound her hair into a messy bun, managing to stick a pen to secure it using only one hand before pulling out three mugs. “Come in! It’s unlocked!” She called over her shoulder as the intercom buzzed. “You take your coffee black right?”

“Ma’am.” Maggie glanced up into the big earnest face of Steve Rogers, Sam trailing behind him.

“Steven.” She cracked a small smile as she extended a steaming mug to him.

He took it carefully and nodded graciously.

“Same-same Sam?” She inquired, turning back to the stove.

“Yeah,” Sam answered.

“How was your trip from Moscow?” She asked pleasantly, handing over his mug of coffee before pouring one for herself.

“Well, we have another place our guy  _ isn’t _ ,” Sam said with a heavy sigh.

“Another black pin, huh?” Maggie commented taking a sip of the coffee. It was black and slightly burnt, but it eased the pounding in her head slightly. “Let’s adjourn to the office, and we can go over our next move.” She said, motioning for the two men to follow.

Moscow was a little too on the nose. When they found Barnes, it wouldn’t be somewhere like that. But that hadn’t been her call to make. Steve had wanted to check, and so Sam had gone. “Did you find anything interesting? Hydra files?” Maggie inquired as she sunk down behind her desk and watched as Steve and Sam sat down on her lumpy, ugly sofa.

“Man. I can’t believe Stark let you drag this thing into his multi-million dollar apartment.” Sam scoffed, as he surveyed one of the stains on a fraying cushion.

“Stark didn’t  _ let _  me do anything. I wanted a couch, and I wasn’t about to spend five GRAND on the one that you wanted from restoration hardware. Do not disrespect my couch Sam Wilson or next time you can sit your ass on the floor.” Maggie rolled her eyes. “ANYWAY.” She said, picking up a black pin from her desk and extended it to Steve. “If you’d do the honors Cap’?”

He rose and accepted the pin, pushing it forcefully into Moscow while She and Sam watched in silence. Steve made his way back over to the couch and sunk down before Sam spoke again. “How’s the Russian coming along?”

“Slowly. The language programs Stark gave me access to have been excellent but, still taking me some time since I’m working several at once.” She answered, picking up a bottle of pills and fiddling with the Cap.

“Romanoff could help you if you wanted. She’s back stateside for the moment.” Steve suggested.

Maggie paled. She’d seen the super-spy around, but they hadn’t interacted, and Maggie wasn’t sure she would ever be ready to do so. The woman had a  _ presence.  _ She was beautiful, and graceful, and terrifying in the way that most talented and deadly women were, and Maggie found that she was not prepared to interact with that in her current state of somewhere between a potato and walking grease stain. “I’m sure she has other more important  _ Avenger-y  _ things to be looking after than tutoring me.” Maggie stammered out. “So.” She continued clearing her throat. “What’s our next move, Steve?”

They talked strategy and options, and Maggie took notes in the journal she’d started. Sam handed over and talked through the files he’d collected. Their meeting was cut short by Steve, who was called upstairs to talk Avengers business, and they adjourned their official business.

“So what you doing for lunch?” Sam asked as the front door closed behind Steve.

“Hadn’t thought about it.” Maggie said, booting up her computer.

“Have you been sleeping all right?”

“Not really.”

“You should probably talk to someone about that.”

“Can’t mix pain meds and sleep meds, Sam, though frankly, I’d rather be able to drink again than have to deal with either.” She replied.

“You know I wasn’t talking about that.” Sam said.

“I didn’t think you cared.”

“Of course, I care, Mags.”

Maggie snorted, rolling her eyes. She really didn’t want to have this conversation again. They’d gone round and round about that when she’d first arrived. Mostly about the ranch and about money when he’d been settling her affairs. He’d wanted to know why she hadn’t asked him for help. Why she’d allowed the bills to stack up. Why she hadn’t reached out to him. Fortunately, the ranch was in a trust now and being looked after. Not that it mattered, they weren’t going to be able to find anyone to run the ranch. Sam had been able to convince Suzanne to re-home a majority of her horses, with the exceptions of Shadow and Ghost, who would stay with Suzanne. She should’ve been pleased, she wanted to be pleased, but instead, she was just angry: angry at Hydra, angry at Roberts, angry at Barnes, and even to some degree angry at Sam. This wasn’t fair, none of this was fair. She was lucky to be alive, sure, but at what cost?

 “What?” Sam asked.

“Nothing.” She shook her head.

“You been having that dream again?”

“What dream?” Maggie asked blandly as she rose to her feet and walked back toward the kitchen.

“The flying dream you said you were having in the hospital.” Sam replied, following behind her.

“Nope.” Maggie shook her head, dumping out the stale coffee and returning the percolator to the stovetop.

“You wanna come have lunch with me?”

“Nope.”

“Do you plan on having lunch?” Sam pushed.

“Grilled cheese.” She answered. “And you’re not my nanny Sam. You know that you’re not responsible for me.” Maggie bit out, with a little more venom than she’d intended. She could still see Sam’s picture on the table, the one that Hydra had threatened her with. He didn’t know, and she would take it to her grave, even if it rotted her from within. He was just as responsible as the Winter Soldier for Hydra coming and burning down her house, her barn, and her life. Only worse than the Winter Soldier, Sam had had a choice. He could’ve stayed on the ranch, he could’ve come and helped her at any time only he hadn’t, and now they were here.

“When was the last time you left the apartment?” Sam asked.

“I dunno.” Maggie shook her head as she placed a skillet on the stovetop and started assembling her grilled cheese.

“You really should let me take you to lunch.” Sam said.

“I have work to do.”

“Mags, you’ve been basically working non-stop since you got here. You can take a break, you know. This doesn’t have to be your whole life. It  _ shouldn’t  _ be your whole life.”

Maggie didn’t know what to say. Or rather she knew what she wanted to say but knew that wouldn’t go over well. It would result in another fight, which was something her aching head didn’t really want to deal with at the moment. The truth of it was this, she didn’t have a life.  _ This _  was her life for the foreseeable future, and until they found Barnes, she wasn’t going to stop. She couldn’t. She wanted to get her life back, she wanted to be back at that musty old farmhouse, with the leaky barn, and with bills up to her eyeballs rather than be stuck here. The ranch by the end had been a prison, a trap of her own making. At least it was home, as compared to this. So if running herself into the ground until they found Barnes was what it took, then so be it. Sam wouldn’t understand. Sam had volunteered, Sam could walk away at any point, that option just wasn’t available to her.

“I haven’t washed my hair in a bit. It would take way too long to get ready.” She said putting a slice of buttered bread on the skillet. “Seriously, Sam. You just got off the plane from Moscow a few hours ago. You’re probably exhausted. You don’t have to worry about me.”

 “Maybe I should be.” Sam said, walking up beside her and starting assembling a sandwich. They worked in silence a moment, and Maggie could feel Sam trying to come up with something to say. She really had to hand it to Sam, he was way more thoughtful than she could ever be when it came to their interpersonal communication. “So, what do you think he’s up to?”

“Who?” Maggie stopped and looked up at Sam, brows furrowed.

“You’ve spent the most time with our guy, and have spent the last month trying to get inside his head. What do you think he’s doing when he’s not, yanno, avoiding us?”

Maggie snorted, shaking her head. “I’m not trying to get inside his head. You know that’s not what I’m doing.”

“So what do you think he’s up to? Based on your observations and the date you’ve collected.” Sam commented, gently moving her aside, he took the spatula from her and flipped her grilled cheese in the pan.

“Oh. I dunno.” She winced as she climbed up and sat down on the counter, watching Sam from an elevated perch. “To be honest, I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

“Well, perhaps you should,” Sam said. “Might help,” He shrugged.

“Might help what?”

“Help you find him. I mean, you were the one who let him sleep in the barn for two weeks before you knew who he was. Knowing that he’s the Winter Soldier didn’t change  _ that  _ much, did it?”

“I think it was the torture and ‘dying’ that might have changed my perspective about the man we’re looking for a little bit.” She answered dryly.

“You like your sandwich cut diagonally right, or has that preference changed?” Sam questioned.

“Yes. Triangles.”

He cut the sandwich, plated it, and handed it to her, placing his sandwich in the pan. “It might help us find him if you can imagine him as a person, Mags.”

“I know he’s a person.” She said with a mouthful of sandwich. Maggie chewed and swallowed. “He’s just a person who tried to kill you twice to three times and is part of the reason that I’m sitting here.”

“Okay. So what can you imagine that person is doing right now?” Sam pushed.

Maggie rolled his eyes. “I dunno.” She took another bite of her sandwich. Sam wasn’t wrong. He was never wrong. Maybe she was approaching this whole thing wrong. She’d stripped Barnes down to essentials, down to the behaviors he’d exhibited, rather than who he was as a person. But how could she possibly know that? Other than taking a wild guess. She exhaled slowly. “I really don’t know, Sam.”

“Maybe you should figure that out, it might help you with this thing.” He paused, taking a bite of his sandwich he chewed slowly before swallowing. “In the meantime, we have to do something about your hair.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Nah, dude, it’s just gross.”

“Thanks, Sammie.”

“Come on, Mags, let me help you with your hair. Please, if just for hygiene’s sake, your hair is getting nasty.”

She stuck out her tongue, taking another bite of the sandwich, she couldn’t help but giggle. Sam smiled. It felt good. Just the two of them, together, laughing, almost like the old days.

Sam’s phone beeped, and just like that, the moment was gone. “Have to run an errand for Steve. I’ll be back in a little while.” Sam said, biting his sandwich put the plate in the dishwasher. “I’ll be back later, and we  _ will _  deal with your hair then.” He commented after he’d removed the sandwich from his mouth.

 “If you try to take a pair of scissors to my hair, I won’t be the only one down a hand.” She said gravely, sliding gingerly off the countertop.

“Thought hadn’t even occurred,” he said, planting a soft kiss on her on the forehead. “You’re salty.”

“It’s all the cheese you just consumed, Wilson.”

“Well. Whatever the case. Have an answer to my question when I get back.”

“Right. That.” She rolled her eyes. “Where ever Barnes is, he isn’t dealing with you and your bullshit.”

“That’s a feature, not a flaw, Magdalene,” Sam said as they walked toward the door.

 “Whatever.”

“Whatever yourself!”

“Just go run your errand for Cap,’ you ass.”

“Love you too!” He shot as the door shut behind him.

Maggie chuckled, shaking her head. She turned to the office, to the stack of files, to the computer, and wall map, and language books, and the gross stained couch. “Okay, Barnes.” She sighed, rubbing her face with her good hand. “If I where you, what would I be doing right now?” Maggie asked the silence of the flat. “Yeah.” She groaned, sinking back down on the couch, resting her head on one of the cushions, she closed her eyes. “That’s what I thought, too.”

-

 

It had been over a month since the events on Last Chance, almost two months since he’d escaped Hydra, and about three days since his last “unpleasant” incident. Or had it been longer? He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t been sleeping well, or at all, it was hard to tell. His brain was too loud, two lifetimes of information and memories waring for dominance, for control What was real and what was an echo of a hydra implanted memory he couldn’t quite make out, but it was in his head and making things difficult. He was writing everything down just like Ra…just like the woman had suggested, but that was only doing so much. Which is why he was out late, walking the damp empty streets. He’d been craving something sweet and salty, so he’d gone to the little shop on the corner to grab some chips and a chocolate bar. He’d gone to the park and eaten his snacks and was now walking back to the safe house. He’d be leaving in the morning, he had to keep moving, he couldn’t linger long.

Then something clicked in his brain, almost like a sixth sense. He was being followed, and they were closing fast. His eyes darted around, looking for a strategic exit, witnesses, security cameras, anything, and everything that might prevent being compromised or captured. Then the man trailing him walked past, and it was then that he saw the man’s actual mark.

_ Shit. _

Somehow this was worse. He wasn’t the garget, it was the woman walking ten yards or so ahead of them. She picked up her pace, and the man filling her matched paced to overtake her. James veered off right, his mind screaming even as he did.  _ Stay out of this. Don’t get involved.  _ His brain screamed, followed by.  _ If you do nothing- _  He scaled the building and looked down, keeping pace as he jumped with ease from rooftop to rooftop.

The man was calling after her, speaking in increasingly raised tones, trying to get the woman’s attention. She’d quickened her pace, nearing a jog, her hands out of sight, likely curled around keys or a weapon of some kind.

_ She’ll probably be fine. _  He reasoned, trying to find some way out of his present course of action.  _ Just like Wilson should have been able to get to Ra- the woman before Hydra did?  _

He silently swore at himself, but he knew he didn’t have a choice. If he did nothing and something happened, it would be his fault. He wished he could ignore it, and he hated that both parts of his mind were even having this debate.

Before he could talk himself out of whatever he was going to do, he jumped from the roof into the alley wan and then walked out into the street, just as the man grabbed the woman’s arm.

She turned, a look of sheer terror on her face, which was only matched and surpassed by the look on the man’s face when James grabbed his arm.

“Let. Her. Go.” He bit out in a near growl. “Now.” He ordered as he squeezed the man’s arm, probably harder than necessary.

The man let go of the woman’s arm, and James jerked him bodily away from her, putting himself between the stalker and his mark, before shoving the man away. The man stumbled back and fell, scrabbling to his feet, and darting away as fast he could manage.

James watched him go, only vaguely aware that the woman was still standing behind him frozen in place. He turned, slowly, and found that she wasn’t a woman, she was a child, a girl, no more than sixteen. She looked up at him with big blue eyes, wide with fear, already welling with tears. He took two steps back, hands up in a way that he hoped was non-threatening, or less threatening rather. “You okay?” He managed after a moment

She nodded.

“There’s a shop that’s open two blocks that way.” He motioned. “Call someone to come pick you up, you shouldn’t be out this late on your own.” He said shortly, turning he started walking back the opposite direction.

“Thank you.” She called weakly.

He paused a moment before he continued down the road. His mind spun.  _ You shouldn’t have let her see you, you shouldn’t have gotten involved.  _ Yet there was something familiar about the action, about the girl, something that had happened not a month ago at Last Chance Ranch, but a long, long time ago, before the war, before the soldier. A name formed on his lips, but he didn’t speak it into existence. He couldn’t. Not here, not now. It would open up too many wounds, and he had too much to do.

James shook his head. Zero days since the last incident, and now he had to move.


	2. Tacos and Old Photographs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!
> 
> A/N: This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance' and is Part II of IV of my "Find Your Way Home" Series. So if you're confused that's why.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Smile by Nat King Cole, You Learn By Alanis Morissette, Counting Stars by One Republic

Maggie was having a hard time sleeping. To be fair, she’d been having issues sleeping long before Hydra had tried to burn her alive inside her own house, but it was sufficient to say that Hydra certainly hadn’t helped the matter. Which was she was laying on the couch staring up at the ceiling. The pain meds helped her sleep but gave her nightmares, or worse nightmares, so rather than braving the bizarre and horrible dreams, she opted for her whole body hurting. Her wrist was well on it’s way to healing, her hand, however, would take a bit more. Dexterity, strength, sensation, it was likely she’d never regain full function of her hand, never mind the ugly surgery scars that would serve as a constant reminder. It was still unclear how bad it was going to be, only time and physical therapy would tell.

She adjusted on the couch, wincing as she did.

It was this time of night that was the most difficult. It was when she missed the ranch, missed Riley, missed her life the most. During the day it was easy. She had plenty to keep herself occupied with, learning several languages, following leads, following up with Sam and Steve about progress or lack thereof. However, while it filled and occupied her time, it wasn't a draining or exhausting kind of work. Which meant that her mind was racing, filled with more information that it could possibly process. On top of the heap was Sam’s question. It had been there, festering silently since he’d asked it, almost a week ago. _What do you think he’s up to when he’s not avoiding us?_

It was a simple question, which was why it was so damn infuriating that she didn’t have a damn answer. And she didn’t have the first clue as how to even begin to start to answer it. What was perhaps even worse was that Sam was right. She’d somehow managed to distill her time with Barnes down to its bare essentials, to the point that she had no idea how to conceptualize him as a person, as a man. How could she? He’d barely been human when she’d found him in her barn, and while they’d had all of two and a half conversations, _real_ conversations, it didn’t leave much for her to imagine him as an individual, as someone who had any motivations or desires beyond simple survival. That’s what she’d seen that first day in the barn, and that last day in the outbuilding, everything in between was just _blurry_. 

_How is that supposed to help anything? How is that going to help you get home?_

Maggie reached for the chain around her neck strung with two wedding bands. _I’m going to fix this. I can fix this._

But what if she couldn’t? That thought plagued her and clouded her mind. _You’re dead remember? You’ve already failed everyone, there’s no way you can make this right. You've done nothing but fail, done nothing but screw everything up._

“Nope.” Maggie sat up. “No. No. No.” She rose, staggering to her feet, dressed and pulled on her running shoes and walked up the ten flights of stairs to the private gym. If her brain wasn’t going to shut itself down, she was going to do a hard reset.

The gymnasium was state of the art, nothing less than she’d expect from a Stark facility. And since it was nearly three in the morning, Maggie had the place entirely to herself. Walking around the indoor track several times, she worked her way up into a jog. It was a nice release. She couldn’t go much faster than a jog because she didn’t want to jostle her hand and arm, but it was nice to work off some of her excess energy.

Pausing to attempt to tie her shoe, Maggie realized she wasn’t alone. Steve was at the punching bag. How long had he been there? How many times had she passed it? Had he seen her and left her alone? She didn’t know. Maggie looked back down, chewing on her lip as she tried to manipulate her shoelaces with one hand.

  _How is he handling all of this?_ She couldn’t imagine. The man had been on ice for almost seventy years, lost nearly everyone he loved, saved the world, and now was trying to track down his best friend who’d been brainwashed by the very organization he’d fought to destroy back in the 1940s and had done his absolute best to try and kill him. Considering he was down here, he was probably handling this about as well as she was, which was not great to say the very least.

“Need help?” She looked up to realize that Steve had stopped what he was doing and was walking toward her cautiously, almost akin to someone approaching a wounded animal.

“I-I-uhhh, yeah actually.” Maggie managed to get out before he stooped down beside her. They were close, face to face. She hadn’t been this close to him before, and she couldn’t help but marvel at how _young_ he looked. Certainly, biologically he was in his 90s if his birth certificate was anything to go off of, but he didn’t look any more than twenty-eight, twenty-nine. They looked almost the same age. Although, he certainly lacked the grey hairs that had begun sprouting at the crown of her head when she hit thirty. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I didn’t know anyone else was in here.” She commented as he tied the laces with a tidy bow. Maggie paused, choosing her next words carefully.

“Trouble sleeping?” Steve asked as he rose to his feet.

“You beat me to the punch there, Captain.”

“Huh?” Steve frowned, furrowing his brow.

Maggie chuckled, hauling herself from the floor, and rising to her feet as well. “I was trying to figure out how to ask you the same thing.”

“Oh.”

“A bit of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?” She said, surveying him. The easiness in his expression was gone, and there was something decidedly pinched about his features. “I won’t tell Sam on you if you don’t.”

“I get the feeling even if I did Ms. Ramirez, there’s very little Sam could do that might affect the situation.”

“Now Captain, where on earth would you get an idea like that?"

“No clue.” He shook his head, cracking a small, almost fragile smile.

 _There he is._ Maggie realized suddenly. The Steve she was acquainted with was Captain America, but there, just a second ago, she’d seen something undeniably Steve Rogers, something unspeakably, something unfathomably...delicate. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Thanks for the assist.”

“Any time.” Steve nodded.

Maggie nodded in reply, turning she paused before turning back to his already retreating form. She didn’t really want to be down here, alone with her thoughts, working through shit that had no right to be on her mind at three in the morning. Steve, it looked like was in the same boat or at the very least in an adjacent boat, and it seemed they were sharing a single paddle between them. “Hey, quick question.” Steve stopped and turned back around. “Do you know of any good taco stands that are open at this hour? I have an itch that I can’t scratch.”

“I don’t. But, the internet probably does.” Steve said, digging in his pocket, removed his cellphone and started tapping something into what she assumed was a search bar. “I don’t know what constitutes good tacos, but there are some options.” He commented extending the phone to her.

Maggie took it, surveying the search results. “Some of them aren’t too far away, and have some pretty favorable reviews.” She paused, “You up for an adventure Steve?”

“What?” He surveyed her uncertainly.

“Do you wanna go get tacos with me at three in the morning? I’m _technically_ not allowed off Avengers property without an escort. Generally, Sam will go with, serving as an escort by proxy. But since Sam isn’t here, I’d either have to wake Fabian or convince you to go with me.” She explained quickly. “Since you’re already awake and seem to be in the same mood I am, I figure tacos might be an easier sell for you than trying to explain to Stark Security that I have a three A.M. craving and that no delivery isn’t the same thing.” Maggie extended the phone back to him.

Steve took it, a contemplative expression on his face. “Sure. I’d be up for an adventure.”

After a couple of false starts and about forty-five minutes of walking around Maggie and Steve found themselves sitting on a park bench with a spread of tacos across their laps, styrofoam cups of horchata between their knees.

“So how do they stack up?” Steve asked as she took a bite of one of her tacos el pastor.

Maggie made a few non-committal noises as she chewed.

“Sorry.”

Maggie shook her head as she finally swallowed. “Gave me a chance to think.” She said. “Umm. It’s not bad. Not the greatest El Pastor I’ve ever had, but it’s hard to beat my grandmother’s. It certainly scratches an itch since I can’t make it myself presently.”

“Sam says you’re an excellent cook.”

Maggie chuckled, “He would say that considering I am the _sole_ source of consistently decent Mexican food he can find this side of the Mississippi.”

Steve screwed his face up in a confused expression, and Maggie was almost sure he was going to cock his head to the side like a curious golden retriever. It was cute, but rather than torment him over it she decided to have mercy. “Sam got a taste for Mexican food when he and Riley were doing Pararescue indoc out at Lackland.”

“Is that were you met?”

 “Yes, actually.”

“So you’re former military, too.”

“No, just a Texan out of her element.” She smiled, taking a sip of her horchata.

“All of this must be an adjustment," Steve said, motioning vaguely to the city skyline.

“Well. The city yes. Too many people, not enough open sky, but that’s my problem with any city. It _is_ nice that I can be out here at 4:30 nearly 5:00 in the morning and have my pick of tacos from at least five different taco traditions. How are you enjoying your carne asada?”

“Good. It’s good.” Steve nodded, taking another bite.

“So what about you? I imagine a lot has changed since you were last here.”

“You could say that.” He said shortly.

 _Shit._ Maggie had hoped that their conversation and casual banter had loosened him up a bit, but that obviously wasn’t that case. She had to reevaluate her strategy. “It’s strange going home after you’ve been away a while. I went back to my home town a few years back before Riley passed away before I moved permanently to the east coast. I wanted to say goodbye to my family, visit their graves before I left, my grandparents, mom, and brother. It was strange. It was the same place, with a lot of the same people, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same because I wasn’t the same.” She said finishing off the el Pastor taco, doing her best not to drip lime and grease drippings out the back of the tortilla onto her leggings.

“Yeah, it’s changed a lot.”

It was an encouraging answer so she proceeded. “I bet. How was the nightlife back in the day? You ever do anything like this?” Maggie asked as innocently as she could manage.

 “No. Not exactly, but Buck and I found more than our fair share of trouble.”

“I can’t imagine growing up in a place like this. All of the different people, and things going on at all hours of the day and night.”

“I take it, Texas is a little slower paced than this.”

“A bit. Particularly in West Texas where I’m from.”

“Do you miss it? Texas, I mean.”

“I mean. Yeah. Not as much as I used to. When I first moved out to the ranch oh almost ten years ago now, I was so homesick. Snow sucks in general, but when you’ve never experienced it to that magnitude and then when the sun taps out at 3:00 in the afternoon in the winter, it was hard. But now…now that I’m not there anymore, I miss the ranch more than anywhere else in the world.” She paused, glancing over at Steve who was staring down at his tacos miserably. “I still wouldn’t change anything. I don’t _regret_ helping him, even with how it ended.”

Steve nodded, taking a small sip from his cup. “What was he like? I mean when he was you know on the ranch?” He managed after a moment.

Maggie looked down at tacos. She’d given him her polished initial evaluation on Barnes shortly after moving into the Avengers Tower. It had been nearly ten pages single spaced when it was all said and done, but it hadn’t given Steve the information he’d wanted, not in any real capacity. Was there anything of his friend left to save? That’s what Steve wanted to know, and in truth, Maggie didn’t know how to answer. It was why she hadn’t included that sort of judgment call in her report. But Steve had been a good sport, particularly humoring her with their Taco excursion. She’d try to give him what he wanted, what he needed, which at the moment was the truth _._ “He was quiet, watchful, polite, but there wasn’t really much in the way of a personality.” She paused, seeing a pained, pinched expression cross Steve’s face. “I take it that wasn’t the norm for your friend.”

“Then or now?” He scoffed shaking his head.

 _Okay, change direction here, this isn't going to go anywhere good._ “You know. Sam asked me a few days ago what I thought Barnes was up to when he wasn’t, yanno avoiding us. I honestly couldn’t answer, couldn’t even hazard a guess.” Maggie paused, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Suggestions?”

“I try not to think about it.”

“It could help us.” She hesitated. This wasn’t about helping Steve. If anything this was about helping her understand the man she was tracking down, understand what made him _human_ rather than just a phantom in her nightmares or a name on a piece of paper. She had to ask because she needed to know. “It would help me help you track him down.” Maggie clarified.

“There’s no guarantee of that.” He bit out.

“Nothing’s a guarantee, Steve.”

They sat there in silence, Steve staring down at his tacos, while Maggie watched. He was struggling. Something was going on, just below the surface. He was fighting himself, over what Maggie couldn't be sure, but it looked painful, almost unbearably so. Maggie wanted to reach over and put her hand on Steve’s shoulder, to reassure him he wasn’t alone, but she couldn’t. Nothing was reassuring about her presence. In fact, her presence was a reminder, constant and painful, Bucky Barnes was still on the run because she hadn’t called Sam in time.

 “I…uhhh...I guess what do you want to know?” Steve began slowly after a moment. “I mean you’ve read all the files, and from the sounds of it seen all the documentaries. There really isn’t much to tell.” He shrugged, taking a large bite of his taco.

Well, Steve wasn’t wrong. She had read all the files she could get her hands on and watched any and every documentary, news real, and interview she could. But it wasn’t enough. This was the howling commandos Captain America and Bucky. It was propaganda at it’s very best and an outright lie at its worst. It frankly didn’t tell her a damn thing about the man she was looking for. In fact, they treated Steve Rogers and James Barnes from before the war as an obligatory footnote, something they breezed through before the first commercial break. Their lives before the war were simply a prelude to the _greatness_ that Captain America and his inseparable best friend would become. Maggie didn’t buy it, because it was horse shit, and she was a verified horse shit expert. So she needed a reliable source, and Steve Rogers was the most _reliable_ source she had access to.

Maggie looked him up and down. He looked like _hell_. Would it be worth it to drag out this man’s personal trauma so that she could get her answers? What would the cost be? And could she possibly justify it to herself, Sam, and most importantly to Steve?

“Whatever you want to tell me.” She said finally.

Steve made a sound that Maggie couldn’t quite identify, somewhere between a scoff and a choked back sob. “I....I...I don’t think I can give you the information you’re looking for, Ms. Ramirez.” He paused with a smallest of sniffles.

“I understand. But honestly, you’re not obligated to tell me anything at all.” Maggie said, but it felt hollow. What else could she possibly say? She’d knowingly dragged her and Steve into dangerous territory, and now she’d have to find a way to get her and Steve back out again.

“No.” He shook his head. “It only makes sense that you’d want to know about Buck- about the man you’re tracking down. I just don’t think I’m the one to do it.” Steve said removing his phone from his pocket.

“Which is totally understandable.”

 “But I think I know someone who might," Steve said face focused down on the phone.

Since they had been sitting there the city had started to come to life. People already on their way to work, the sky was just starting to lighten up in preparation for dawn. Maggie let the light and the sounds of the city wash over her as she focused on the man sitting beside her, typing rapidly into his messenger. Who was Steve contacting? And did he really think that the person on the other end was going to answer at five in the morning?

“You up for an adventure?” Steve asked, looking from his phone as he stowed it back in his pocket, something light and easy melting his hardened features as if a weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders.

Maggie opened and closed her mouth, “Can I ask where we’re going?” She answered uncertainly after a moment.

“No. But there will be coffee.” He answered scarfing down his last taco in two quick bites.

Maggie’s gaze narrowed. On instinct alone, she knew she should be suspicious, but in a matter of moments, she’d gone from worrying about how she was going to get the two of them back to the tower if Steve Rogers had a meltdown here on the park bench, to now being promised answers and hot coffee. It was a pleasant change, but superficial at the very best. She’d have to talk to Sam later to see if there was any way they could get Steve talking about Barnes, it couldn’t be healthy the way he was bottling all of this up.

 _And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?_ This wasn’t about her, this was about finding answers to all of her questions and getting her life back. _Then_ and only then would she start to process her shit. Until that time any and all processing of  _her_ baggage seemed like a moot point.

“All right.” She nodded. “Let me finish my tacos, and we can get going. Provided you buy me another horchata first.”

 “Sounds like a plan.” Steve nodded, rising to his feet.

Steve let her finish her tacos and bought her a horchata, and Maggie found herself on a train to Brooklyn. Where she’d expected Steve to take her, she wasn’t quite sure, but her confusion only grew as they wound through a back alley of one of the older Brooklyn neighborhoods.

The sun was up, and it was approaching 6:00 a.m. when they started toward the front stoop of a street facing apartment. “You’re not even going to give me the tiniest of hints of where we’re going?” She asked as they approached the door.

“No. But don’t worry, you’re about to find out.” Steve answered knocking gently.

“Steve Rogers you’re-” She started before the door was answered by an elderly woman with a mess of curly white hair and round fire engine red spectacles.

Maggie took a staggering step back as the woman immediately crossed the threshold and dragged Steve into an embrace. “Steve! It’s so good to see you.” She said hugging him tightly.

Steve returned the hug with extreme care. “You too. How have you been Bec?” He asked as they pulled away from their embrace.

“Oh. Old.” The woman shrugged turning to Maggie. “Now who is this Steven? Have you finally brought a girlfriend of yours for me to harass?” She grinned.

“Uh. No.” Steve shook his head more than a little flustered before Maggie could get a word out. “No. Becca this is Magdalen Ramirez,” Steve explained, “Maggie, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Rebecca Proctor.”

“Oh please Steven,” The woman rolled her eyes, extending a frail hand to Maggie. “Becca is just fine dear.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Maggie managed, taking the woman’s hand, her brain kicking into overdrive as she tried not to slip into Southern Belle mode. It was the closest thing to a defense mechanism Maggie had when meeting new people, outside of a total shut down.

Becca held Maggie’s hand tight. Pulling Maggie close, the older woman surveyed her with a critical eye, her electric blue eyes magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses. Maggie recognized a sizing up when she saw one and was simultaneously doing the same thing. This woman knew Steve. Like knew _knew_ Steve from back in the day, and she knew Barnes somehow. _Is she one of Barnes’s old girlfriends?_ It didn’t make sense. Who on earth was she talking to? Who had Steve brought her to meet, and why was he being all _secretive_ about it?

“You’re right Steven," Becca said abruptly as she leaned around Maggie to look at Steve. “She _is_ pretty.” Maggie opened her mouth to protest but stopped when Becca winked, motioning with her chin to Steve, who had somehow managed to go a deep shade of pink. “Now come inside dear and get something to eat. Steve probably dragged you out here under the pretense of food and coffee.” Becca led her into the apartment, Steve trailing behind them. “You know where the kitchen is Steven, make yourself useful.” She called over her shoulder.

“Yes, ma’am," Steve replied, a grin twisting at the corner of his mouth.

He peeled off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Maggie alone with the old woman. “Now do you go by Magdalen, or by Maggie?” Becca asked as they emerged into the living room.

“Maggie, please. Mrs. Proctor.”

“Becca, dear, Becca is just fine.” The woman said, releasing Maggie’s hand. “Take a seat there.” She waved at the couch.

Maggie sat obediently, watching the other woman sink down in a plush armchair. She looked so fragile and frail. Her face was creased with lines from years of worry and care. Her hands were thin and bony, and veiny. Yet there was something in her expression that was fierce and unrelenting. Something that age and time hadn’t been able to touch. There was something familiar in that piercing blue gaze, and it gnawed at the back of Maggie’s brain as she tried to place where she’d seen it before.

“So Steve tells me you’re from Texas originally.” Becca began.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Becca, dear. I already have Steve calling me ma’am, making me feel more ancient than I already am. I don’t need it from you too.” She corrected firmly.

“Sorry.”

 “And please don’t apologize dear.” She smiled before continuing. “So, where from in Texas? I spent a little time there as a military wife, Lackland Air Force Base, near and around San Antonio.”

“Midland-Odessa area, but I spent some time in the San Antonio Area as well," Maggie said, trying to keep her eyes focused on the woman rather than the room around them which was littered with photos and mementos that kept pulling at her attention.

“Well, of course, you’re a Military Wife as well. Air Force, too, if I’m remembering correctly.” Becca said.

“Oh. Yes. Did Steve tell you that too?” Maggie asked, hoping that the edge of irritation wasn’t seeping into her tone too much. Whatever Becca knew it wasn’t her fault that Steve hadn’t mentioned to Maggie that he’d been talking about her.

“He did. He’s told me a lot about you, which I take it from the tone he didn’t do the same for you.”

 _Shit._ So much for poisoned honey. Was it the exhaustion or the total lack of give a shit that was ruining her poker face. Maggie didn’t know but figured that since she was just meeting Mrs. Proctor that honest would be the best policy. “No.” Maggie shook her head.

“I’m sorry about that. Steven can be a little protective of me. He’s always been protective of me.” Becca said with a healthy dose of annoyance.

“I understand. Sam can be the same way too.”

“Annoying, isn’t it?” Becca said conspiratorially.

“Oh my god, yes.” Maggie sighed.

Becca smiled, nodding sympathetically. “They do it because they love us, after a fashion. But it can be a little hard to remember that some times when they’re being complete idiots about it.”

Maggie chuckled. “I think that’s a good way to put it.” She paused. “So I guess in the name of the military wives club and good manners, I have to ask. Where did Mr. Proctor serve?” It wasn’t the most invasive question she could’ve asked. It wasn’t even the question she _wanted_ to ask, but it was the most logical progression for where the conversation had taken them, which would hopefully lead to a more appropriate time for Maggie to ask what she really wanted to ask.

“Oh. It wasn’t Mr. Proctor, Mr. Proctor was my second husband. My first husband Gabriel was Air Force and served in Korea.” Becca answered. “In some godforsaken place, I’ve now forgotten the name of.” She paused at the sound of a loud series of crashes in the kitchen. “Steven, are you all right in there? Do I need to send Ms. Ramirez on a rescue mission?”

“I’m fine," Steve called from the kitchen after a brief pause. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black.” Becca and Maggie answered in unison.

“Copy that.”

Steve emerged moments later with a tray of food and coffee mugs in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. “Here you are.” He said setting the load down on the coffee table between her and Becca.

Maggie surveyed the tray, two mugs, two plates, two sets of utensils. “You’re not staying?” She glanced up at Steve, aware of the panic creeping into her voice.

“I had some things come up that I need to take care of. I’ll be back in a little while,” Steve answered. “Provided that’s okay with you, Bec.”

Maggie glanced over at Becca, a look of resignation on the older woman’s face. “Sounds all right with me. I’m sure Maggie and I will find _something_ to talk about.” Becca replied.

“But. But. I’m not supposed to be out of Stark Tower without-” Maggie started.

“You’ll be perfectly safe with me here, Steve has some of Stark Security watching the place.” Becca cut in shortly. “Which, on that note, tell Tony Stark he can still kiss my ass.” She said dryly.

Maggie almost choked. Glancing between Steve and Becca, looking for some kind of clue as to what the _hell_ was going on.

“He’s not all bad, but I’ll be sure to pass the word along,” Steve leaned down and pecked the old woman on the cheek. “You two have fun.”

“I’m sure we will,” Becca replied.

Maggie starred, uncertain of what she could say. “Have a good day, I’ll see you in a little while," Steve said, patting her on the shoulder. And before Maggie could get a word in edgewise, Steve was gone from the apartment without a word. “Is he normally like this? And by this, I mean dropping people off on your doorstep in the early hours of dawn and then just leave them?”

“Believe it or not, he used to be worse.” Becca smiled. She paused, shaking her head, picked up her mug of coffee. “Poor man. The 21st century has not been very kind to him.”

Maggie didn’t know how to respond. Becca wasn’t wrong, the 21st century hadn’t been kind to Steve Rogers. He’d lost nearly everyone he cared about, and two of the most important people in his life that were still around didn’t remember him or were unable to remember him long enough to realize he was alive. Never mind waking up seventy years after crashing a plane in the middle of the ocean.

So who was Becca Proctor? Maggie’s mind felt fuzzy from a lack of sleep, and likely the depression she’d been fighting with that was doing shitty things to her memory as she tried to recall if she’d seen that name before and then of course in what context. Obviously, they’d known each other before the war, but how exactly was still eluding her. Maggie’s gaze wandered the room, trying to absorb her surroundings, and trying to deduce anything she could from them before she dove in and started asking more pointed questions about why the hell Steve had dragged her here at six in the morning under the pretense of answers. The walls of the living room were covered with photos, both black and white, and full-color. At the far end of the room was a fireplace. Placed on the mantel was a case holding the American flag folded neatly into that all too familiar three-point fold. She’d given Riley’s flag to Sam. At the time she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of looking at it, but now she was thankful that she had, otherwise it would have _also_ been lost to the fire. The flag sitting on Becca Proctor’s mantel must have been Gabriel’s flag, but it looked older than that. Beside the flag was a yellowed piece of paper in a frame and a black and white framed photograph. “Go ahead and take a look.” Becca’s voice made Maggie jump.

“Pardon?” Maggie asked, bashfully meeting the woman’s unrelenting gaze. Had she been watching her look around? Was she waiting for the questions? What did she know that Maggie didn’t? Well. A lot more than Maggie did, obviously, but what precisely did Becca Proctor know that Steve thought might help Maggie?

“Take a look around.” Becca urged.

“May I?” Maggie motioned to the flag.

“Please.”

Maggie rose slowly to her feet and approached the mantle, her eyes fixated on the black and white photograph sitting beside the folded flag. She picked up the frame carefully and turned to face the woman who was watching her. Maggie glanced between the picture and the woman, trying to keep the shock from washing over her.

“You’re Rebecca Barnes.” Her voice was small as she said it.

“I was wondering how long it was going to take you to make that connection," Becca said, cracking a small, sad smile.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know...I mean, I didn’t think...” Maggie stammered, looking down at the photograph. It was James Barnes, in full uniform standing with his arm slung around a young woman in a plain cotton dress. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. They were both laughing, their smiles broad, their eyes bright. The eyes, they had the same eyes, how had Maggie not seen it before? “Now, I just feel stupid.”

“Don’t. You’ve had a lot on your plate from the sounds of things. The fact that you didn’t already know is sort of...” she paused. “...nice.”

“It’s a beautiful photograph," Maggie said, returning the frame to the mantle.

“I was sixteen when it was taken. It’s the last photograph that I have before he died...well disappeared.” Becca shook her head. “It’s strange to think that he’s been alive all this time. The military said he’d been KIA. All they sent us was a flag, that letter, and medals, for my brother’s sacrifice and valor,” She scoffed at the last word, a stinging bitterness in her tone. It was a bitterness Maggie understood all too well. “It all seemed hollow, considering what we’d lost. But we were at war, and we weren’t the only ones who lost people. It hit my father hard. I’m convinced it killed him. Losing his only son to the second world war, he’d seen in his lifetime. My mother was a fighter, though. She packed away that flag, letter, and medals, and we moved on. We didn’t have a choice. I don’t think I ever did quite wrap my head around the idea that he was gone. Then, of course, a few months later, I lost Steven as well. It seemed natural, poetic almost that one couldn’t survive without the other. They’d been inseparable for as long as I could remember."

Becca paused to clear her throat. “When they pulled Steven out of the ice a few years ago, it felt like vindication. My brother wasn’t dead, not all of him at least. If I couldn’t have all of my brother, my Bucky back, then at least I could have a part of him.” Becca paused. “Steve didn’t come to see me until after he got out of the hospital this April. I wish he’d come sooner. But it would’ve been unfair to Steve to ask such a thing of him. I’ve had almost 70 years to process everything, to grieve. For Steve, it’s still raw as if it had happened yesterday.” She trailed off.

Maggie could feel a tightness in her chest form at the woman’s words. The pain, though old and muted, was still very much present almost 70 years later. Her hand went to the chain around her neck, her thoughts went first to Riley, but then also to the brother she’d lost almost twenty years ago. It still hurt. Riley hurt more, certainly, but she could still remember when Antonio had died. The denial that somehow her brother wasn’t gone, that had persisted even though she knew, logically knew that her brother was dead. She couldn’t imagine what Becca was going through, living for almost seventy years not knowing precisely what had happened to her brother, then to one day wake up and be told that he’s alive. Maggie couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to imagine. Yet, looking into the woman’s face, Maggie knew the pain, that particular aching in her chest.

“You’ve seen my brother.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I have.” She wasn’t going to lie to this woman. If Steve hadn’t wanted her to say anything, he wouldn’t have left, but Maggie had a feeling that was exactly what this little meeting was about and exactly why he hadn’t wanted to be here.

“Steve told me all about it. Thank you.” Becca said gently, her expression was softer, more tender somehow than only a few minutes before.

“For what?” Maggie asked.

“Steve was concerned he was going to come here you know. After what happened in D.C. He thought my brother might come to me looking for answers.” She explained. “Little did they know he was just an hour or two north of here with you. You looked after him for two weeks before those bastard that hurt my brother came to hurt you. Thank you for being there with him.” Becca surveyed her with those intense blue eyes.

Maggie nodded, unsure of what she could say. _Your brother ruined my life, but cool yeah no problem._ No. Maggie wouldn’t say that, even if she did feel it, even on the best of days.

Fortunately, Becca didn’t expect her to respond. “Now come here drink some coffee, I get the feeling that we have a long day ahead of us,” Becca said.

Maggie obliged and returned to the couch and her coffee.

 "Now, Steve told me you wanted to know about my brother," Becca said as she picked a grape from the fruit salad and popped it in her mouth.

“Yes.”

“Why? You’re sitting on top of one of the most technologically advanced buildings in the world, I can’t say best intelligence gathering, but you certainly have access to a lot of information. Why do you want to hear Steve or me for that matter reminisce about the ‘good ol’ days’?” The woman asked critically

Maggie looked down, focusing on the mug in her hand. This was a test. Maggie knew that instinctively. But why? To see if she was worthy? To see if she was deserving? It made sense. It was one thing to talk about the death of her brother, but another to talk about his life. That was hard, very hard, and Becca wanted to know if Maggie was worth the effort. Why did she want to know about James Barnes? Well. She wanted to find him. She wanted to find him to get her life back, which at the moment looked like getting to know him as a person. Would that be enough for Bucky Barnes’s sister? How much had she endured because her brother had by chance been best friends with Captain America? How many people had come knocking on her door asking about her brother? How many since Steve had been pulled from the ice? What about since the events in Washington D.C.? What would make her any different? _Because you can bring her brother home, and provide closure for a seventy-year-old wound._

“I won’t lie, Mrs. Proct-”

“Becca, dear, Becca.” Becca interrupted.

“Right. Sorry.” Maggie took a sip of the coffee and took a deep breath. “I won’t lie, Becca. Some of this, some of my motivations are selfish. Your brother was on my ranch for two weeks, and I lost everything because of it.” She paused, evaluating the other woman’s expression. Becca’s expression was flat if not slightly critical, but not hostile, which was enough for Maggie to continue. “I don’t blame him for that. I just...I want to know who that man was...is...and I feel that knowing who he is will help me not just to find him, but to understand why he’s worth finding. Which I know sounds terrible, but I think when you read too much about a person, no matter how engaging and humanizing, it’s difficult to imagine that person as well...as anything more than just a name on a page. I just want to make him more than just a face in a picture or a name on a page.” Maggie stopped, licking her lips. “I want to make him _real_ so that I can find this real person.” Maggie felt light-headed, her words bunched together and twisting as she spoke. “I’m sorry, I haven’t been sleeping well, I have no idea if that made any sense whatsoever," Maggie said breathlessly, blinking slowly, even as she was aware that Becca was watching her.

“I can see why Steve trusts you,” She smiled softly before taking a sip of her coffee.

Maggie shook her head, “No. No. I don’t think he trusts me.” That was true enough. It wasn’t trust so much as the circumstances that had brought her and Steve together as unlikely partners in tracking down the elusive Winter Soldier. Yet for some reason, Becca thought differently.

“Really?” Becca raised her eyebrows. “You think he’d leave you alone with the kid sister of his best friend if he didn’t trust you? He hasn’t even brought Samuel Wilson to see me.”

She had a point, and it left Maggie speechless. Opening and closing her mouth as she tried to find a way to respond, Maggie realized that she was out of her depth, with no idea of what to say or do next. When Steve had asked her if she was up for an adventure, she wasn’t entirely sure what she had imagined, but it wasn’t this. She’d known James Barnes had sisters, she’d looked it up, it was written down in her journal, but she hadn’t followed through with that because...well...why would she? What possible information could one of Barnes’s sister’s have that would lead to them to finding Barnes? “I don’t think Sam’s thought to ask.” Maggie managed after a moment.

“And neither did you. But you asked Steven to tell you about my brother, and now here you are.” Becca paused, surveying her carefully. “Do you know how many people I’ve had look me up and try to sit me down for an interview about my brother since his disappearance in 1945?”

“No.” Maggie shook her head.

“More than a thousand. It could possibly be in the multiple thousands by now. Do you know how many I’ve given?” Again Maggie shook her head. “About three, possibly four. Do you want to know why?” Maggie nodded, prompting Becca to continue. “Because most of them wanted something. Wanted to take a bit of the fame, a bit of the legend that was and is Bucky Barnes, Howling Commando, Best friend of the famous Captain America for themselves.” Becca paused, “But I get the feeling that you’re not interested in the fame or the fortune. If that were the case, Steve wouldn’t have brought you to me in the first place. I think rather than taking, you’re more of the giving type, sometimes a little too much if what you’ve exhibited over the past month, and a half to Steve and in some small way to me as well is anything to go by.” Becca glanced meaningfully at Maggie’s arm, all tied up in its sling.

Maggie wanted to say something, wanted to protest, wanted to somehow argue, that _no_ she wasn’t worthy of Steve’s trust or the trust of Rebecca Barnes Proctor. She only wanted to find Barnes to be able to go home. But the words wouldn’t come. Personally, Maggie couldn’t imagine how worn down the woman had become over the years, of people asking her to talk about her brother, to talk about something so personal and painful with no regard for the effect that it might have on her. Yet she wanted to talk to Maggie, wanted to help Maggie so that she could find James Barnes and bring him back to her. Maggie didn’t understand _why_ Becca and Steve trusted her with this, but perhaps their trust was enough.

“So. Shall we get started?” Becca asked.

“Sure.” Maggie nodded.

Becca rose unsteadily to her feet and went to a box sitting on top of the record player. Maggie made a move to stand up, but Becca waved her off. “Sit down. I’ve been told you’re on a strict no lifting order while your arm and hand are still like that. I may be old, but I’m not _that_ old dear.” She said, proceeding back over to Maggie, sat down on the couch and put the box between them. “Now. Let’s see.” She said, pensively brushing the dust off the lid, she opened the box.

Maggie leaned in to see the contents inside. It was crammed full of files, newspaper clippings, and old letters. “That’s what I’ve got," Becca said. “Everything from 1943 when he shipped out to this April when he-” The lump in her throat kept her from finishing. “Poor, Steven.” She sighed, shaking her head, blinked back tears.

Maggie reached out to touch the woman’s shoulder. She wanted to say it was going to be alright. Wanted to say that she was going to find her brother and bring him home, but she couldn’t and so she wouldn’t. Maggie swallowed hard, pulling her hand back. She remembered screaming her brother’s name until her voice was raw, she’d practically collapsed from the exhaustion. The pain was still there fresh and bright, just like yesterday, pain that was reflected in Becca’s expression.

“So.” Becca’s cleared her throat, looking up she met Maggie’s gaze. “What do you want to know?”

Maggie swallowed, trying to find the right words. “Tell me about Bucky Barnes.” Becca raised an eyebrow. Maggie took a deep breath, before proceeding, “Tell me about your brother.”

Becca and Maggie talked and sifted through her box of letter, clippings, and documents until about four in the afternoon when Maggie’s body finally gave out, and she fell asleep, curled up on Becca’s couch. She woke long enough for Steve to call them a cab, but only after she’d promised Becca that she’d return to finish their conversation as soon as they both could. Returning to the tower, Maggie opened her journal and jotted down what she’d seen and heard that, before collapsing into bed.

That night, for the first time in a long time, she didn’t dream about falling or about dying in her smoke-filled kitchen strapped to a chair. Instead, she dreamed for the first time about Bucky Barnes, friend of Steve Rogers, brother of Rebecca Proctor-Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of a longer chapter but there was a lot I wanted to get through! So what did you think? Personally, I love Becca and Steve's relationship. Poor Maggie has no idea how to handle the two of them!
> 
> Love to hear what you thought. Comments, Kudos, and Subscriptions are always welcome! 
> 
> Happy Reading!


	3. Born of the 4th of July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: 
> 
> Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! 
> 
> I’m so very sorry that it’s taken me forever to update. This chapter gave me a good fight (and as you can tell from the length there is a lot going on). Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Recommended Listening: Star Spangled Man (Cover) By Meg Bodun, Fortunate Son (cover) by Chase Holfelder, Born in the U.S.A. by Bruce Springsteen,

****James squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. The bright light of the computer monitor was making his eyes water and his headache. He didn’t like doing research on the computer. There was something more _satisfying_ working with hard copy documents and books, something about the tactile sensation of paper under his fingertips. Unfortunately, not all of his research could be conducted in hard copy books. One of the great and terrible innovations of the twenty-first was digitization, which opened a wide range of opportunities for him to track down and record who the Winter Soldier had killed, and learn as much as he could about them. Many of his...many of the Winter Soldier’s marks had been famous, people with extensive political, scientific, cultural, or strategic connections. These were the easiest to research. To his mind, those made the most sense. There was a logic to it, a reason, a sense of purpose to why their lives had been taken. It was those caught in the crossfire, those whose lives were taken for no other reason than they were in the wrong place at the wrong that he had a harder time with. Not just uncovering information about the individual, but also wrapping his head around. The first lives and the last he’d taken as the Winter Soldier were hitting him the hardest as he searched in vain for scraps of information about the former. Three American servicemen in West Germany in 1954, almost a whole decade after he’d been taken by Hydra. The details were fuzzy, it wasn’t even so much a memory as a vague sense of recollection. He’d found the report, but hadn’t been able to find anything about the men who’d died. Did it matter? No. They’d been dead now sixty years. But he needed to know, wanted to know who they’d been, what they might have been had they not been arbitrarily selected by Hydra, by the Winter Soldier, by _him_ for a premature death.

The other name, the first name in his journal and the last name chronologically, the last person killed by the Winter Soldier, killed in the crossfire of something bigger than she could even imagine, James knew where he could find the information but was avoiding it. It had been two months since he’d left her to die, and he couldn’t get her out of his head. The way that she’d asked him to stay asked to help him. He couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened to her if he’d never stumbled into her barn. Would she be throwing a Fourth of July cookout for her clients and volunteers? Of course, she would’ve, but without fireworks, it would have spooked the horses and everyone else for that matter. Would the people of Last Chance Ranch still gather? No. There was no reason to. What about Wilson? No, he was helping Rogers track him down.

James paused. The Fourth of July, the Fourth of July, it was Steve Roger’s birthday. Steve Rogers, Captain America, born on the Fourth of July. He would’ve laughed at the irony of it all if not for the sharp pain in his shoulder and spine, and because he was in a very _very_ quiet library.

Sarah Rogers had always tried to make that day special for Steve, the Barnes family had too. They’d always included both Mrs. Rogers and Steve in their Fourth of July celebrations whenever possible. But then, no matter what they’d been doing that day, he and Steve would climb up on the roof of their apartment building to watch the fireworks.

 _Well._ He added sharply. _Not you. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes._

James shook his head. How would Steve Rogers celebrate today? Would he celebrate at all? Or was Rogers on his trail, closing in on him as he sat here?

 _Would Rogers celebrate the fourth with Becca?_ Becca had always loved the fireworks. She hadn’t much liked the noise when she was younger, but she loved the colors and designs. He couldn’t help but wonder how much time had changed his little sister. Could he still call her that? She was old and gray and married, twice married in fact with children, and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. _Will she be celebrating with her family? Celebrate the holiday with her kids and grandkids and great grandkids?_

There was a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. Was that guilt? Anger? Regret? Or perhaps more likely it was his body reminding him to eat, he hadn’t been good about that recently. His thoughts returned to Becca, to James Barnes’s youngest sister. The last blood relative of James Barnes who’d known him as he’d been in life, before the war, before the fall, before the solider. Did she know he was alive? If she did what did she think? What had Rogers told her? Did she think he was going to come to see her? Did she even want to see him at all?

James had looked her up, shortly after his visit to the Smithsonian. It had been curiosity more than anything else at the time. He’d thought about going to see her. She’d have been able to give him the answers he was looking for, the closure he so desperately wanted. But then he’d started experiencing the withdrawal symptoms, and he’d headed north instead.

 _Besides._ He reasoned. _She wouldn’t want to see me anyway, not like this, not after everything I’ve done. Why would she want to see the shade of who her brother had once been?_ It would only have brought her pain. She’d already lost her brother once. She’d grieved and moved on. It would be cruel to open that wound again for his benefit. In this end, this was more merciful, for everyone involved. He’d made a choice. Now he had to live with that choice and see it through to its conclusion. He needed to get his head on straight and piece together his past before he could drag anyone else into this mess with him.

***

           

It had been a little over two months since her life had ended, and a little more than one month since Maggie had found herself sitting on Becca Barnes-Proctor’s couch, the youngest sister of James Barnes and the last surviving Barnes sister. It had been one month since Steve had dropped Maggie off on Becca’s doorstep and what had initially seemed like a once or twice occurrence had turned into a three or four time a week meet up. It was a surprising development, but one that broke up the monotony of sitting at a desk all day scanning files and scouring the internet for clues.

Becca had done a lot of research over the years, trying to find out exactly what had happened to her brother, going so far as hiking the Alps where he had allegedly fallen. In the process, she’d compiled a ton of data, and although some things were more useful than others, it gave Maggie something to work with. As a sort of bonus, and only adding to Maggie’s delight, Becca spent a lot of time telling her stories from her childhood about Bucky, Steve, and the entire Barnes clan. Stories from better times, Becca always said, from before the war, before things had become complicated and their family had been fractured and broken. It was nice to hear about James Barnes from someone who’d _known_ him and was willing (or otherwise able) to talk to her. As a side effect, Maggie was also learning about Steve Rogers from Becca as well, namely who he’d been before the celebrity that was Captain America and the Howling Commandos had taken over his life.

Maggie glanced up at the mirror, watching as Steve worked a section of her waist length hair into a perfect victory roll. Steve had been quiet about her and Becca’s budding friendship. He seemed to gently encourage their friendship but really didn’t say anything about what he _thought_ about his best friend’s kid sister having lunch with one of the only non-hostile parties to interact with James Barnes in the last seventy years multiple times a week. It was a strange relationship dynamic to have. Her interactions, thus far, with Steve had been strange. They were perfectly civil and polite to one another, like a work friend who dropped in at all hours of the day and night. But that’s really where their relationship stopped. They weren’t friends, not _real_ friends. Their conversations were mostly utilitarian, with the rare moments of interpersonal insight. However, the closest they’d been to acting like _real_ friends had been the once at three in the morning, eating tacos on a park bench for reasons that more or less consisted of ‘I couldn’t sleep, and it’s either this or working myself into exhaustion.’ Yet, despite that, here he was, helping her get ready before they went to the Proctor Family’s Fourth of July Barbecue, (although Maggie highly doubted that actual barbecue would be served.) Maggie wanted to be his friend. It was clear that he and Sam were friends (although she had suspicions that they might be a little more than that) and she couldn’t help but feel that it was only _fair_ that if she was going to spend an inordinate amount of time with the man looking for his best friend, then she should be friends with the guy she was helping.

“So where on earth did you learn to style hair like this?” Maggie asked, eyes closed, but acutely aware of Steve as he moved around her, spraying a fine mist of hairspray over her hair. “Was this a pre-war skill or something you learned through your USO days or something more recent?” She asked, hazarding a quick peek at what he was doing.

 “Picked it up here and there.” He answered with a shrug. “I suppose you wonder where I learned to paint nails too.”

Maggie glanced down at her fingernails, which were now a "Victory" red, and would match the lipstick she was going to apply as soon as Steve was done with her hair. “No. That actually makes sense to me. Becca says you were an artist, _are_ an artist. One paintbrush seems rather like any other.” She answered. “With hair, it just seems a little different. It’s a different medium than say painting or drawing.” Maggie paused. “What is your preferred medium?”

He chuckled shortly.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “You can open your eyes now and take a look.”

Maggie opened her eyes and surveyed her expression critically. Steve had taken her long, tangled mess of hair and had sculpted it into a work of victory roll art. “It’s beautiful, Steve, thank you.”

“Any time. Becca mentioned that you’d asked her about 1940s fashion and she thought that I should help doll you up for the get-together today.” Steve answered.

“That’s very generous of you, Steve, but you didn’t answer my question.” Maggie turned on the barstool she was sitting on to look up at him.

“What?”

“Preferred medium.”

“Oh.” He paused, “I worked with whatever was cheap and available. I was always better at drawing, and pencils were cheaper and easier to get ahold of so that’s what I primarily worked in. If I had to pick a favorite, it would be watercolors.” He explained. “Why?”

“Curiosity and birthday present ideas.”

He tensed. “That _really_ isn’t necessary.”

“Not a fan of birthdays or not a fan of attention?”

Steve looked her over warily.

Maggie sighed. “I ask in the spirit of genuine interest because I understand. Do you know how I spent my last two birthdays?”

“How?”

“Drunk. Very drunk.” She said. “Not one of my better moments, but I don’t like celebrating my birthday. Haven’t for a very very long time. I all but forbade Riley and Sam from celebrating or making me celebrate it.” Maggie explained. “I know we’re going to Becca’s thing this afternoon, and then there is Stark’s thing tonight. If you want or need me to run interference so you can run for the exit, I totally can.” She commented seriously.

“You don’t have to do that," Steve answered.

“No. But I _can._ ” She watched him closely at the way he looked at her. Something pained very nearly pinched in his features. “Just let me know," Maggie said quickly. She wasn’t going to push the issue any further. The guy was clearly uncomfortable, she didn’t want to make it any worse.

Her mind, however, not content to just leave well enough alone, immediately went to fixate on a different object of stress. Maggie was meeting Becca’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, including an assortment of people Becca had fostered or adopted over the years. _They want to meet you, dear._ Was all Becca had said before she’d told Maggie that she needed to come dressed in theme. In all, there were supposed to be thirty-something people there. “Do you really think this is a good idea, Steve?” Maggie blurted out before she could stop herself.

Maggie didn’t really need to know the answer, she knew Steve thought it was a good idea. She also knew functionally, logically why Becca’s kid’s wanted to meet her. _Vultures._ Becca had explicitly told Maggie that she wasn’t the first to come and ask about her brother, and although Maggie had the endorsement of Steve Rogers, she had no doubt Becca’s kids were a little more than wary of anyone who might be in a position to take advantage of their mother.

“They just want to meet you. I'm sure Bec has been telling them all about you.”

Maggie _humphed._ She hadn’t so much as been told their _names._ Had Becca been talking about her? What was there to say? Other than perhaps, “This girl is trying to find your Uncle Jimmy,”? It was unfair to both her and Becca, but in all honesty, what was there to say about _her?_ She was pretty damn boring presently. “What if they don’t like me?”

Steve turned his head, looking over at her, a puzzled expression on his face as if the thought had never even crossed his mind. “Why wouldn’t they like you?”

“I dunno? Something to do with taking advantage of an old woman in her advanced age?”

“But you’re not.”

“I mean, I know that, but do they?”

“No. But they will.” Steve said firmly. “Now come on. We should get going.”

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. _You don’t understand_. She wanted to scream. _This woman is the closest thing to a friend that I have at the moment._ But she didn’t, because Steve was very nearly in the same boat. He had the Avengers sure and Sam, but Sam was away constantly, and Steve couldn’t even tell the Avengers that he didn’t want a birthday party. Becca was one of Steve’s last links to the past yes, but she was also one of his only friends. Or at the very least, that’s what Maggie had observed.

_God, we’re pathetic, aren’t we?_

Maggie nodded, grabbing her handbag, and they started to the elevator. “Have you met Becca’s kids?” She asked as the elevator doors closed.

 “I have, yes. They were all here for Passover.”

“You’re Jewish?” She asked.

 “I am.”

“And the Barnes family is too?”

“Yes.” He nodded as the elevator doors opened, and they walked out toward the vehicle waiting for them.

 “I can honestly say I feel like I should’ve known, but that is something that the documentaries _never_ mention.”

“They don’t," Steve said dryly as they both settled into the back seat of a nondescript black sedan.

 _They don’t mention a lot of things._ Maggie had to bite her tongue. This wasn’t the time or place to talk about what she suspected. The guy wasn’t _out_ as it would happen, even if she did suspect that he and Sam were a _thing._ If and when he was ready, he’d come out, then and only then they could talk about being of a similar inclination, stars _and_ stripes as it would happen.

"Anything I should know about? Topics to avoid? Things to not bring up? Politics? Religion? The Dodgers?”

A smile quirked up at the corner of his mouth. “I think you should just be yourself.”

“Well, as I have no idea how to be anyone else, that was generally the plan.”

“You don’t need to be nervous.”

“Maggie smiled, “Appreciate it, Steve.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.”

They sat in silence the rest of the ride there, a churning in the pit of her stomach. _Steve wouldn’t lead me astray, would he?_ She couldn’t help but wonder, her stomach twinging as the car came to a stop.

Steve gave some quick instructions to the driver that she didn’t quite catch all of before helping her from the car. _This was a bad idea._ They were at a park, a large group congregated around a set of picnic benches, streamers, and balloons and all sorts of decorations hung up. There was a grill, and coolers, and a gaggle of kids playing with bubbles, and kicking around a large blue ball, someone had also quite recently knocked down an oversized Jenga set. Presiding over it all was Becca sitting in a folding lawn chair, with a small child probably no more than six on her lap. She was stroking the girls head and murmuring into her hair. Steve caught her attention, and she nodded, motioning with her chin.

“Come on. I have to introduce you to someone.”

“But.” Maggie stammered as Steve took her by the arm and started leading her over to a group of people.

“Steven. Glad you could join us.” It was an older man who addressed them, breaking away from a group of adults chatting. He was probably in his mid-sixties, his hair while gray had flecks of color in it still, making it difficult to pin down a more precise age. His eyes were a sharp piercing blue, and they surveyed them as they approached.

“Always an honor to be invited," Steve said, shaking the man’s hand. “Good to see you.”

“You as well.” The man replied before turning to her. “You must be Ms. Ramirez.”

“Maggie.” She said, extending her hand.

“James Martinez-Proctor.” He took her hand, shaking it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. You must be Becca’s eldest child.”

“Hard to get anything past her, isn’t it?” James asked, glancing over at Steve.

“Just depends on what it is.” She said with a quick smile.

“Steve. Can you come over and help me with something!” Becca called.

“Be right there.” Steve called over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.” He said before walking away.

Maggie stood there, uncertain if she should follow after or try to make small talk until Steve returned. James was apparently thinking the same thing as he watched her carefully. “Mother has told us a lot about you.” He began.

Maggie tensed. This was how it started. He was going to tell her they didn’t like her hanging around their mother, and that she needed to stop immediately. That they didn’t like her unburying and reopening old wounds by talking about her brother. “Good things, I hope.” She managed weakly.

“Only good things," James said. “Mother says you used to have a veteran’s equine-assisted therapy facility.”

“Yeah. Last Chance Ranch.”

“Thank you for your service," James commented.

“Pardon?” Maggie stammered.

“Your service as a military spouse and widow, and for your service to the veteran community. That’s no easy thing. We’re not always the most outwardly _appreciative_ folks.” James explained.

“Oh. Thanks.” She was taken aback. No one had ever thanked her for her service. It just seemed like the thing to do, given the state of veteran’s affairs and the serious lack of support system for most veterans. Then something clicked into place in her mind. “You served.”

“Drafted, yes.” He nodded.

“Vietnam?”

“Just out of high school.”

She nodded. This wasn’t what she’d expected at all. She’s expected a shovel talk, a cease and desist at the very best, and while there was still _plenty_ of time for their conversation to veer sharply in that direction, it didn’t seem like that was going to be the case. “Your mother didn’t really tell me anything about you or her other children.” She said slowly.

“She wouldn’t. She’s an insanely private person. Do you know how long we’ve been trying to get her to tell us about her brother?”

 _Her Brother._ The word choice was very specific, it wasn’t James Barnes, Uncle James, or even just "our uncle," but instead her brother. “You mean...she doesn’t talk about him?”

 “No.” James shook his head. “It’s the past and it’s buried, is what she’d always told us when we asked.”

But that didn’t make sense. There were photos of him out and around Becca’s apartment. Certainly, she must’ve told them something. Becca had mentioned that she hadn’t given many interviews, but did that mean to her children as well did it? Well, apparently so. Maggie adjusted, uneasily, her stomach twisting and knotting. “You want to know why me.” She said in a small voice.

“I think there’s a very particular reason _why_ she’s talking to you.”

“Because I’ve seen him.”

“Partially.” He paused, frowning thoughtfully. “You know some of my mother’s story. You know her life hasn’t been a particularly easy one. She’s lost a lot of people she loved, but so have you.”

“So you’re saying that makes me an ideal candidate to talk to your mother about her brother?” Maggie said her voice clipped and sharper than she’d meant.

“No. I think she sees a lot of herself in you. At least that’s what I’ve gathered. She doesn’t have to _explain_ why something matters, you understand, because you’ve been there, or been somewhere similar.” He explained. “We don’t want anything out of you, Ms. Ramirez. We just want you to keep doing what you’re doing. Perhaps, try to convince our mother to share some of her past with us.”

 “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re already doing so much. And my siblings and I are very appreciative of it. You make her feel young again, and I know we’ve all been able to see a difference in her mood since you’ve started coming for your visits.”

Maggie paused, taken aback. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything," James replied. “You are welcome here. We are glad you came, and we would be honored if you stayed.”

“Thank you.” She managed after a moment.

“Now, If you don’t mind too much, I’d like to introduce you to the rest of the Barnes-Proctor family," James said.

“I’d love nothing more.”

James led her around the park where they’d set up, introducing her first to his half-sisters, Mary, Jenny, Elizabeth, and Stephanie before expanding out to the grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and all of those that Becca had fostered or adopted over the years. All of the adults embraced her warmly, echoing James’s sentiments, they were glad she was there, they were delighted that their mother, their grandmother, their matriarch, the heart and soul of their family, had met her and had brought her into their family.

“So. What do you think?” Becca asked, sinking down beside Maggie at the picnic bench.

Maggie set the hotdog down that she’d just taken a massive bite out of and chewed slowly as she thought of a way to respond. “They’re all lovely.” Maggie managed after swallowing.

“They worry about me," Becca said pensively.

Maggie nodded, taking a sip from her cup.

“They’re glad you’re here, but I don’t think they quite know what to make of you.” Becca chuckled.

“I don’t think _anyone_ knows what to make of me, including me," Maggie replied.

“You’re a sweet girl, Maggie," Becca said, patting her arm gently.

They both looked over at the sound of shouts and cheers from the kids to find that a group of them had attached themselves to Steve’s waist, arms, and legs and were giggling in delight as he dragged them around the grassy field. “Oh, poor Steven.” Becca chuckled. “He never was much good with children. I can tell that hasn’t changed much.”

“I think he’s doing just fine.” Maggie smiled, returning her gaze to Becca, who was still watching the scene.

“You know he’s 96 years old today if his birth certificate is any real indicator of actual age.”

“So he was actually born on the Fourth of July?” Maggie couldn’t help but smile.

“Yes, and my parents would have him and Mrs. Rogers over every fourth for his birthday.” Becca returned the smile. “This is the first year we’ve had him here since he came out of the ice. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you really think he would’ve come had I not insisted that he bring you as well?” Becca asked. “If you hadn’t been here, he probably would’ve closed himself off up in that ugly Stark building looking for my brother or been out there with Samuel Wilson.”

Maggie nodded. Becca wasn’t wrong, but she could also understand not wanting to celebrate. That was all right too. She’d spent many birthdays either alone or refusing to celebrate all together. That was just a fact of life. _But he shouldn’t be alone._

“I don’t know." She sighed. "I’m glad that I was able to drag him out here today, but I get the feeling that I’m less of a friend and more of a painful reminder.”

“You and me, both dear," Becca said sweetly.

“Oh," Maggie said shortly her mouth forming around the word more than making an actual sound.

She looked at Becca. There were so many things that she wanted to ask. So many things she wanted to know, but now wasn’t the right time.

“I think he needs a friend. I think he needs to be reminded that there is a life to be had after all of this, finding my brothers, and even the Avengers nonsense.”

 “Are you saying I should volunteer?” Maggie asked, chuckling lightly.

 “I’m saying that you’re halfway to it already.” Becca smiled. “He likes you and respects you. It won’t take much for you to be friends.”

“I think he tolerates me because I'm useful.”

“Do you really think he would introduce you to his best friend’s only living blood relative if he only tolerated you?” Becca asked.

Maggie opened and closed her mouth a few times.

“Finish up your hot dog, dear, Steven is headed this way.” Becca grinned.

Maggie took the largest bite she could manage without choking as Steve walked up. “You almost ready to go?”

“Don’t rush the poor girl, James had her running around talking to everyone most of the afternoon. Sit down, have another hot dog.” Becca said, waving him into a seat across from them.

“We have to go soon, Bec. Stark is having a charity event tonight at the tower in honor of my birthday, and the 4th of July.”

Becca rolled her eyes. “You’re really going to let Anthony Stark tell you what to do on your birthday?”

“He’s my friend, Bec.”

“You know I don’t like him, didn't like his father either for that matter. Can’t you just say you forgot?” Becca asked pointedly.

Maggie glanced between Becca and Steve. One of Becca’s parting comments to Steve was always ‘You can tell Tony Stark he can kiss my ass.’ Obviously, there was a history. What exactly it was Maggie couldn’t be entirely sure, but she couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next.

“He’s a damn warmonger from a family of warmongers .” Becca bit out.

 “Only his father was involved in the industry, can't blame all of them.” Steve corrected before glancing over at Maggie. “Becca was an anti-war activist during the Vietnam War, and an anti-nuke activist during the 80s, amongst other things," Steve said shortly, as if that was supposed to explain anything. 

Maggie opened her mouth, but the flow of conversation had already rushed past her before she could comment.

 “Can you blame me, Steven?”

“No.” He said, rising to his feet, he rounded the picnic table and stooped to kiss her gently on the cheek. “I don’t. And as much as I’d love to give Stark the slip this evening, it’s for a good cause.

Becca humphed, but nodded.

 Steve chuckled, putting his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “That trick never worked on me when we were kids, it’s not going to work now.” he leaned back down and kissed her on the forehead.

“Always worth a shot.” She pecked him on the cheek. “Well if you have to go, Ms. Maggie here is far too pretty to get away without taking a few photos," Becca said, as she started rummaging through her purse for her digital camera.

Maggie glanced at Steve uncertainly. “She knows she’s not allowed to post any of them anywhere," Steve said, taking the camera from Becca.

“All right, tell us how you want us," Becca said.

They sat patiently as Steve adjusted and directed them. Once Steve had gotten the shot he wanted, Becca beckoned over the rest of the group. “Family photo.” She told Maggie with a smile. “No arguing.”

After arranging everyone, Steve took several shots. It had been forever since Maggie had posed for a group photo, never mind a family photo. There was the general joking, teasing, and laughing, and the awkward shuffling as they tried to get everyone into the frame. It was familiar, and a type of group solidarity only experienced during these type of thing. Then as soon as Steve got his shots, it was over, and everyone dispersed. “All right, now we have to go and get ready for Stark’s thing," Steve said, handing over Becca’s camera.

“Oh no, not yet.” Becca shook her head. “James, dear. Can you do me a favor.”

James approached and took the camera from Becca, while Becca grabbed Steve’s shirt and practically dragged him down on the bench beside her. “All right. Hold still.” James chuckled, before snapping a few photos.

Maggie focused on the camera, but she managed to catch Becca murmur,“ Happy birthday, Stevie.” before pressing a small gift-wrapped package against his chest.

“Thanks, Bec,” Steve replied, his voice was so low that it was more of a rumble as he slipped the gift into a pocket.

 _I’m invading this moment, I’m an outsider._ Maggie couldn’t help but think. But she also couldn’t help but be touched by the simple, honest emotion behind what she was witnessing.

“I think I got the shots," James said, handing the camera back to his mother.

“And now we _really_ have to go," Steve said.

Maggie wanted to protest, but she knew Steve was right. He had to go, and due to Hyrdra being a huge bag of dicks, she couldn’t be out alone without an escort, which might take forever to acquire. Besides, she’d told him she’d run interference at the Stark thing, and as Becca had said, Steve really needed a friend. “It was wonderful, thank you so much for inviting us," Maggie said, giving Becca a quick hug.

“Of course, always happy to have you. See you for our regular Monday lunch?” Becca asked as they hugged.  

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Maggie smiled as they broke apart. She turned to James, who was watching her closely. “It was lovely to meet you. I hope we get a chance to talk again soon.” She said, extending a hand.

“You’re in our family portrait, Ms. Ramirez. I think we can hug.”

“Absolutely.” Maggie chuckled as she was brought into an embrace.

The rest of the family gathered to say goodbye, and it was another forty-five minutes before she and Steve managed to pull themselves away, and Steve waved at the group as they drove away.

“So. How was that?” Steve asked breathlessly, glancing over at her.

“They’re wonderful," Maggie answered. “I am ready for a drink, though.” She admitted, rubbing her forehead. “It’s been forever since I’ve been around that much family.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Wonderful, but a handful.” Maggie sighed, sinking into the seat.

 “And they like you.”

“I dunno about _like_.” She smiled. “But it is nice to know I have the kids’ blessing.” Maggie paused.

She wanted to ask if he knew that Becca hadn’t told her kids anything about their uncle. It made sense, she understood why Becca hadn’t. She was right, for one. The past was dead and buried, sometimes that was the only way to cope with the pain. She looked up at Steve’s face. Was that what he was doing? Burying the past inside of him? Bury it deep enough, and you don’t have to act like it’s there. That’s why he’d introduced her to Becca and had the old woman pour her soul out to Maggie rather than having to do it himself. How had Steve known that Becca would open up to Maggie at all? It had been one hell of a hunch.

Maggie paused, thinking about James’s words. _You’ve been there or at least somewhere similar._ Fractured and broken in all the same ways: dead husband, dead brother, one loss after another. Yet, there was hope in this story, hope that perhaps this wasn’t going to be her life forever. Becca had managed to overcome so much loss to achieve what Maggie had seen today, a loving, wonderful family, both of blood and of bond gathered together in celebration. It felt like it had been forever since she’d had anything like that, and from the looks of it, it had been a long while for Steve too. _I’m going to make him my friend if it’s the last damn thing I do._   

“Becca really is a phenomenal woman. Thank you for introducing us.” Maggie commented, breaking the amicable silence that had settled in around them.

“Of course.” He nodded, glancing up and out the window toward their destination.

 “Back to reality, huh?” She said dryly.

“If you wanna call this reality.”

“Well, Steve. The offer stands. If you need me to run interference, I totally can.” She tried to smile. The weight of the real world pushing down on them.

“I appreciate it," Steve said, politely.

“Of course, any time.” Maggie smiled, feeling like she was beating against a plate of glass between her and Steve.

Then suddenly, for no reason at all, all of the goodwill, all of the happiness that she’d just experienced and felt seeped away, and was replaced by a dark, black, overwhelming grief. She’d been holding it back even the thought of it all day. She missed her friends, she missed her family, she missed her ranch and everything that entailed. She missed Bill and his hard-headed bullshit. She missed Suzanne’s firm and sometimes unfriendly advice. She missedMike’s gentle teasing, and the bad burgers and hotdogs he would’ve undoubtedly have made. She missed the songs around the campfire, played on her brother’s old guitar, lost in the fire (not that she’d be able to play guitar any time soon for that matter either). She missed all of them so much that it felt like a hole opening like a chasm in her chest. What would they be doing today? Maggie didn’t know.

 _But there’s hope._ She tried to remind herself as she glanced back over at Steve. _There is always hope._

The car stopped, Steve helped Maggie out of the car, and they walked toward the elevator in silence. Entering the elevator, she waited until the doors closed before she turned and looked up at him. “Happy Birthday, Steve.”

“Happy 4th of July, Ramirez," Steve replied.

And they rode in silence the rest of the way up to the chaos that awaited them.

***

For Steve, it had been a decent day so far, which was saying something considering he hated celebrating his birthday. It wasn’t so much that he disliked his birthday, it had just become more of a _thing_ since he’d become Captain America. The Proctor Family Cook Out had been a success. Bec hadn’t made a big deal out of his birthday, and it seemed like Ramirez had enjoyed herself as well. As a bonus of sorts Becca’s children and assorted family had taken to Ramirez right away. It only made sense, people liked her, she was likable and friendly, and smart.

A knot twinged in his stomach. _Am I doing the right thing?_ That question loomed, ever-present, in the back of his mind. Particularly as it pertained to the presence of Magdalene Ramirez in their hunt for Bucky and now her involvement with Becca Barnes-Proctor. Ramirez’s involvement with the case was unfortunate at the very best. The woman had lost her home, her business, her identity, and had been tortured by Hydra because she’d allowed Bucky to sleep in her barn. Then, when she’d still been recovering in the hospital, she’d volunteered to help track him down, for reasons that were still unclear to him. She’d said she wanted answers, wanted closure and had wanted her sacrifice to mean something.

At the time that had made just about as much sense as anything else, and with a fresh trail leading northward, her assistance on the case had seemed the logical thing to do. Sam had been pissed when he’d found out that Ramirez had volunteered and that Steve had accepted, but as she’d stated Sam wasn’t the boss of her, and she’d firmly stood her ground. _It’ll only take a few weeks, a month tops._ Steve had reasoned, they’d been hot on his trail, and they’d had several promising leads.

Only now it had been two months, and not only had they not found Bucky, but Ramirez was taking on a more substantial role in their effort to find him. She had informed him a few weeks ago that she considered herself ‘on call’ and so if he ever needed anything she’d be around 24/7.

‘You really think I have anything better to do, Steve?’ She’d teased when he’d protested.

The comment stung. She was here, indefinitely, at his disposal until they found Bucky, or until it didn’t matter if they _did_ find him. But he wasn’t going to think about that.

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, his fingers fiddling with the wrapping paper of the gift that Becca has given him. He hadn’t opened it yet. He hadn’t had the time or the mental energy to prepare himself for whatever it was that Becca had given him. When they’d been kids, they’d had a no gifts policy. Mostly because they’d been poor, but still, Steve could sense Ramirez’s hand in all of this.

That was another thing. One of the unexpected results of Ramirez’s presence was that Becca was, in some small part, involved in the process to bring Bucky home. Had he made the right decision? Introducing Ramirez to Becca? How would Bucky feel about Steve getting his little sister involved in all of this? How would Bucky feel about Steve introducing Becca and Ramirez? It was difficult to know, and besides, it was too late now. The only way to find out was to find him, then they could sort everything else out afterward.

Steve’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket to find a text from Ramirez.

‘Hey, I know I’d said I’d run interference, but the music is a little loud for me. I'm up on the roof if you’d like to join me. ~MR’

It was a simple invitation. There was no threat of coercion like there’d been for the party. Instead, it was an open offer with zero expectation. That was usually the case with their interactions, now that he thought about it. From the first day they’d met, Ramirez had expressed zero expectations. Not about how long this was all going to take, now about what her role was going to be, not about what she was going to get out of this whole thing. Zero expectations. Was that her way of avoiding disappointment? Have no expectations, and you won’t be disappointed?

The music spiked, and Steve winced. It was loud, there were too many people, most of them he didn’t know, or didn’t want to talk to presently, and the air felt hot and stifled. He could go back to his apartment, it would be quite there and _highly_ unlikely that there would be people he’d have to talk to.

Yet, the very thought of going back there made Steve’s skin feel clammy, as the feeling of walls closing in settled around him.

 _Ramirez mentioned needing a drink_. Steve slipped through the party, silently knicking a rather expensive looking bottle of champagne and a couple of champagne glasses before taking the elevator to the roof.

The doors opened, and he was greeted with a gust of warm night air and the sounds of the city far below them.

“So I see you decided to join me!” He turned toward the sound of Ramirez’s voice to find her reclining comfortably on one of the two chaise lounge chairs a small table between them. Ramirez had kicked off her shoes, and her purse was beside her. Her dark eyes were watching him intently, but a small smile graced her lips which still had lingering traces of red lipstick that had long been rubbed off.

“It was getting loud. Could use the fresh air.” He said as he approached. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. I _did_ invite you up here.” She said, and watching as he sat down straddling the chaise lounge chair and set the bottle of champagne and glasses down. The chilled champagne flutes immediately fogged up in the muggy night air. “You read my mind.” She commented.

“Would you like some?”

 “I’m not going to be drinking alone am I?”

“I did bring two glasses.”

Ramirez nodded, and he went about the business of opening the champagne and poured them both glasses. She took hers and nodded appreciatively taking a sip. They sat a moment in companionable silence as they both sipped from their glasses. “Any word from Sam?” She asked, breaking the silence.

Steve hesitated. What exactly did she know about him and Sam, or what Sam had even told her to begin with? Steve knew that Sam and Riley had been partners in a polyamorous relationship that involved Ramirez, but what would she think of Sam being involved with someone like him? 

He decided not to risk it. “No update.” He said finally.

“But he did text to wish you a happy birthday, right?” She asked.

“Yeah.” Steve nodded.

“That’s good. I’m glad.” She paused, taking a quick drink from her glass. “He’s a good man. A good person.”

There was something pained about her expression as she said it. Something that she was holding back. ‘ _Besides, I have plenty of shit I could hold over his head that I don’t like that he’s involved with. You, for instance.’_ That’s what she’d told him the first time they’d met. Did she know? Had she figured out that something was going on between him and Sam? Did she disapprove? Of course, she did, she was Riley’s widow, the widow of Sam’s former partner, of Sam’s lover.

Steve braced himself for the addendum, for the ‘but’ for the ‘you’re lucky to have him,’ the ‘you hurt him I hurt you’ speech, but it didn’t come. No, she’d been professional thus far, and if he knew her, she wouldn’t change that now, regardless of her personal feelings.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rocket fire, and Steve flinched, eyes draw up to the overcast sky, his body preparing for whatever attack was going to come.

Ramirez’s voice brought the rooftop back into focus. “Huh. I thought it was too overcast for them to shoot off fireworks.”

 _Damn it._ He winced, glancing over at Ramirez who was pouring herself another glass of champagne. “Top off Steve?” She inquired

 “Sure.” He extended the glass to her, watching as she poured.

“Seems strange they’re still launching fireworks off. I never could stand them, and I never would’ve dreamed of using them during Last Chance’s 4th of July and New Year’s celebrations.” Ramirez commented her voice distant as she set the bottle back down and picked her glass of champaign back up. Her gaze wandered, frowning distantly before she muttered “Fuck.” under her breath before she downed the entire glass in a single, long draw.

Steve starred, opening and closing his mouth a few times, before looking down into his glass and then back up at her.

“Sorry.” Ramirez shook her head, blinking rapidly. “I think a part of me is still there, thinking through what I would be doing if I were there today.”

“You have nothing to apologize for," Steve replied, doing everything he could to not wince again at the sound of another firework being launched.

“It really is a shame you never got to see the ranch in its heyday. You really were just there long enough to pull me out of a burning house.” She said, setting down the glass she reached for the champagne bottle, her hand shaking.

“Let me help you with that," Steve said, picking up the bottle before she could grab it, poured her another, much smaller pour.

“You cutting me off, Captain?” Ramirez asked sharply, shooting him a look.

He made a vague consolatory gesture and poured a little more. “I’m sorry that we missed your April cookout. From what Sam has told me they were a lot of fun.” He commented, setting the bottle down.

“He…he mentioned them?” She stammered her expression somewhere between bewilderment and disbelief.

“You did invite us, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but do you know how many times I’d asked Sam to come and visit the Ranch since Riley passed?”

Steve shook his head no.

“A lot. Something always “came up.” I assumed the same thing happened in April.”

_Zero expectations._

She took another sip before continuing with a bright, brittle smile. “Can you imagine if you had shown up at the April cookout? How different things would be?”

 _You wouldn’t be here, and Bucky might not be on the run._ Then there it was, the guilt, ever present, and always just below the surface. She was here because of him because he’d failed.

Steve wanted to say something. What could he say? I _’m sorry?_ That was hardly sufficient for the sacrifices she’d made for Bucky, and by extension for him.

“This isn’t your fault, you know.” She commented, taking a small sip of champagne.

“What?” Steve again found himself starring. Had she read his mind or was it that obvious?

Maggie opened her mouth to speak but paused at the sound of fireworks. She waited for them to pass before she continued. “What happened to me…what happened to him, it’s not your fault.”

 _If I’d stopped him in D.C., we wouldn’t even be having this conversation._ Steve wanted to protest, wanted to argue, but the look in her eyes, the fierce expression told him that he would lose. Several more fireworks went off, illuminating the sky in a fog.

“Steve.” Ramirez began slowly in a break in the barrage of fireworks. “I think this whole situation would be a whole lot better if you and I could somehow find our way to being friends.”

Steve hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“I mean. I dunno. Sam’s gone a lot, and when you’re not doing your Avenging gig, you’re in the gym beating up punching bags.” She said, clutching her left hand to her chest. “Meanwhile I’m involved in this extreme difficulty level “Where is Waldo” game without much contact with the outside world, beyond having lunch with a very ornery 84-year-old brooklyn-ite. I think it would be nice to be able to see some of the city, visit some of the museums, some of the sights with a local I don’t have to get security clearance to leave the tower with.”

“Sounds like you have this all thought out.” Steve managed dryly.

“Well, I have had a lot of time to think, Steve.” She paused, chewing on the corner of her mouth as if deciding if she wanted to say what she was going to say. “I’ve been pretty miserable recently, and I’m doing my best to find ways to not be so miserable. I thought maybe we could find a way to not be miserable, together.”

Steve chuckled shaking his head. She wasn’t wrong. “What did you have in mind?"

There was another explosion overhead and Maggie’s eyes went from the sky to him. “We could go downstairs, watch some telenovelas and eat ice cream. No loud noises, no parties, no one drunkenly singing you a happy birthday. Or I can pop some popcorn and we can watch a movie. Something quiet.”

That sounded nice. Sounded really nice, actually. “Sure,” He nodded. “That sounds like a plan.”

Ramirez rose to her feet and started collecting her stuff. “I’ll go down before you. Just to avoid too much attention. And so I can get stuff ready.”

“I’ll meet you down there in twenty minutes.”

“And I’ll hold you to is Steven Rogers.” She smiled, patting him on the shoulder as she passed him on her way to the elevator.

 _She wants to be my friend._ And for whatever reason the thought made him smile.

Waiting for the elevator doors to close, Steve dug the small gift-wrapped package from his pocket and opened it on his lap. There was a note with a set of watercolors and a gift card to one of the local art shops. The note read _‘_ Happy Birthday Stevie. I don’t know if you paint anymore, but I know these used to be your favorite. Go make something beautiful. Love, Bec.’

Carefully rewrapping the gift he returned it to his pockets and looked up at the sky, stars obscured by clouds, flashes of Red, White, and Blue in the sky, feeling both 29 and 96 at the same time. A strange place to be, and yet here he was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed! Again so sorry it took me forever (or at least by my standards) to post. I kept joking with my two betas that this chapter very well may be posted on the 4th at the going rate. Thankfully not the case. 
> 
> Love to hear what you thought!!! Comments, kudos, or subscriptions are always welcome and appreciated!!!


	4. Little Girls With Sharp Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to ‘On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused that’s why.
> 
> A/N: I am so sorry it has taken me so long to update (as per the normal pace I’ve been working at). I’ve had some RL nonsense to deal with, and I realized halfway through writing what I thought was chapter four that I was actually writing chapter five, so some adjustments had to be made on my part. So I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Recommended Listening: Time in A Bottle by Jim Crose and Black Dirt by Sea Wolf

“So there we were. Bucky without a stitch of clothing, Mrs. Fanny McGregor getting ready to faint, and me no more than nine or ten trying to make sure no one woke up mother.” Becca said through peals of laughter.

Maggie was sprawled out on the couch across from Becca, her side aching from the laughter.

“Fortunately, I was able to deescalate the situation, and exchanged a month of chores in exchange for her not telling our mother what she’d seen.” 

“That. Was. Beautiful.” Maggie managed between several gasps for air, as she wiped at the tears streaming down her face

“Not as beautiful as my brother’s expression being caught on the front stoop by our extremely elderly neighbor and his kid sister completely naked.” 

“Oh, Jeezus.” Maggie wheezed between laughs. “Did he ever tell you what happened to his clothes?” 

“No. And he swore me to absolute secrecy. I wasn’t to tell a soul.” Becca explained, taking a sip from her glass. She paused, her expression thoughtful. ”I think this is the first time I’ve told anyone that story.”

Maggie stopped laughing and sat up to catch her breath. She knew that tone, the long lost memories that come back to punch you in the gut at the most unexpected times. “I appreciate mortifying stories. I have a number of them personally. Most of them involve being stinking drunk. It’s wonderful to know that stupid bullshit isn’t a new invention.” She said slowly.

“Oh, you young people have nothing on what we got up to back then. We were poor and had nothing to do but get into trouble.” Becca smiled. “I think you and I would’ve gotten on like a house on fire if we’d known one another back then.”

“Well, I imagine you and I would get into a lot more trouble now if I weren’t on house arrest and down a hand.” Maggie returned the smile.

“Oh, if I was twenty years younger, perhaps.” 

Maggie opened her mouth to speak and closed it again, grabbing one of the frozen grapes from the bowl on the coffee table, popped it in her mouth. Some things didn’t require a response, and this was one of them.

After the 4th of July picnic, she’d been spending more time on Becca’s couch, whiling away the long summer days. It was a welcome break from the monotony of the tower. Occasionally she got a funny story out of Becca about James Barnes or Steve Rogers before the war. Today’s story had been particularly amusing, and if she was being honest with herself, she’d needed a good laugh. It had been a week for bad news, particularly as it pertained to her. Her hand would be in the cast for eight more weeks, with little good news about the rest of her prognosis. Naturally, Sam was out of town, and Steve didn’t need to deal with her shit, so she’d headed over to Becca’s for their usual lunch date, and the older woman had sensed that she needed a pick me up. It was challenging to know what to say to that, though. Growing up, Maggie had never thought she’d make it to thirty, never mind live through what she had thus far. What could she possibly say to someone who had live through as much as Becca had?

“I have to say Magdalen dear, while it’s a shame that you’re cooped up with this old bird, it’s been a pleasure having you around,” Becca said with a small almost sad smile.

Maggie nodded, reflexively reaching for the chain around her neck, stringing her fingers through the gold bands. “I’ve enjoyed being around.” She managed. 

“Your heart is heavy today, and you’re a thousand miles away," Becca commented gently as she moved from her chair to sit beside her on the couch. “You want to tell me what’s going on? Maybe I can help.”

“Oh. I’m just being stupid.” She shook her head. 

“No, you’re just being mean to yourself," Becca commented, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever it is, I’m almost positive I’ve heard it before. You’ve met my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I’ve seen and heard a few things in my time.”

 Maggie sighed, rubbing her face wearily. “I miss being home. It’s been nearly four months. I didn’t think it was going to take this long. I just want my life back.”

“That’s not stupid at all," Becca said.

“I don’t know. I think Sam thinks it’s a good thing I’m away from the ranch. That’ll it’ll help me move on from...from losing Riley.”

“How long where you married?”

“Pardon?”

“You still wear your wedding bands, around your neck.”

“Oh.” Maggie paused, her hand returning to the worn golden bands. “Five years.”

“KIA?”

 “Yes, Ma’am.” Maggie could feel herself slipping into the grieving widow’s club persona she’d developed when she’d gone to the support group.

“Gabriel was as well.” Becca nodded. “Truly one of my greatest loves.” She glanced up, meeting Maggie’s gaze. “Young, foolish love.” Maggie couldn’t respond. What was there to say? “What was he like? Your husband, I mean.” Becca inquired.

 Maggie exhaled slowly. It had been a long time since anyone had asked her to talk about Riley. Sam was really the only person she talked to about him. Even then, Sam had to be in a particular mood. Where exactly could she begin? “He is...was one of the sweetest men I’ve ever had the chance to know and love.” Maggie started slowly. “He was probably better suited to the life of a school teacher or a professor, but every Underdahl man had served their country for three or four generations and so he was going to too. He was a hopeless optimist, always laughing and smiling and making sure Sam and I didn’t take ourselves too seriously.”

 “Samuel Wilson?”

 “The very same.”

 “Tell me about him.”

 Maggie paused. How best to explain Sam Wilson and their relationship to Riley to a woman born in the 1930s.

“He was Riley’s wingman," Maggie said slowly.

 “And I take it he and Sam were a package deal," Becca commented knowingly.

 "Something like that.”

 “I always thought that would be the case with my brother and Steven. That they would be a package set if they decided to marry, beyond one another, I mean. Inseparable. Polyamory? I believe you young people call it. Back when my son was coming age, it was called free love.”

 Maggie’s face must have looked as surprised as she felt because Becca continued. “One of my grandchildren came out as trans, and another as bisexual. It was unfortunate to find out they were concerned with what I would think. We all had to do some research, but it was a wonderful experience learning and helping them actualize who they are. I do wonder how things might have been different, if things had been as open back when I was a child, coming of age.”

 “It’s still not great," Maggie said dryly.

 “No. I know. A number of my children and grandchildren are a result of parents kicking their children out.” Becca said sourly. “I don’t understand it.”

 “Neither do I.”

 Becca opened her mouth to speak but stopped, a knowing expression on her face. She wasn’t an idiot, and Maggie knew the older woman could work out the meaning behind her words. “You really lost your whole world when he died, didn’t you?” Becca commented.

 “He was the glue that held all of us together. Me, Sam, and Riley.” Maggie paused, exhaling sharply, had to blink as her vision started to blur. “They were my boys.” She managed, her voice squeaky and small.

“You are a brave woman. Magdalen.” 

“No. I just did what had to be done.” Maggie said, shaking her head. “That doesn’t make me exceptional. I’ve lost no more than anyone else.”

 Becca smiled sadly. “My mother said almost the same thing. Had the stiffest upper lip I’ve ever seen, and I come from a family of professional stiff upper lips. First, with my brother and then my father, we Barnes women were expected to soldier on. She never complained, never talked about the grief she must’ve felt. I learned a lot from her. Both good and bad.” It wasn’t pity in her voice. Maggie would know that a mile away. It was understanding from someone who had been through much of the same. “She was an amazing woman. You remind me a lot of her. The strength and grace you carry yourself with, despite everything you’ve been through. You would’ve gotten along. My sisters would’ve liked you too.”

“What happened to your sisters. If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Oh, Abigail died of breast cancer in 1991 and before that Rachel died in a car crash, 1977.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I appreciate your sympathy, dear .” Becca smiled sadly. “All of this to say, I know and understand what it's like."

“Thank you.” Maggie nodded.

 “So tell me more.”

 “About?”

 “Your Riley. About the good times.”

 The good times. That felt so long ago now she wasn’t sure if she could remember what they were, or what it had felt like. She closed her eyes, struggling even to remember the sound of his voice. She’d only just listened to his audio letters a few days ago. Did he exist outside of those letters, those moments trapped in time? Could she remember his annoying traits along with those captured on audio? Was she losing him again? Before she could slip into a panic, she opened her eyes, meeting Becca’s polite, patient expression, and cleared her throat.

“What’s there to say? He was my idiot, white boy. Gringo to boot. But he was mine.” Maggie began slowly. “He couldn’t cook to save his life, although he did try to cook for me when I was sick or just too tired to make an effort. It was very well-intentioned. He was a master at ordering take out and cleaning up the kitchen. He always did his part to make the house feel like home, and he was so tender with me. He would always rub my feet or massage my shoulders whenever I asked, or whenever the mood struck him that I needed a back rub because I was always the one doing all of the heavy manual labor. He always tried to make sure that the fridge was well stocked and would help me put together grocery lists whenever he was away. On the weekends he and Sam were on leave, they would take care of my chores for me, and make sure I got a chance to sleep in, and when I did wake up, made sure I got breakfast in bed.” She smiled, chuckling softly at the memory of Sam and Riley bickering about who got what chores. “Riley loved watching movies. He’d organize movie nights, where we’d all get to chose a movie, and we’d draw lots to see what order we’d watch our movies in. I think he always fixed it because he always drew the last straw, and Sam and I were always asleep by opening credits of his film.”

“What would you watch?”

 “Oh, all sorts of things. Sam was always in for a good buddy cop or road trip movie, I liked action movies or a good biopic if given a chance, and Riley, ever the romantic, liked the classic films or documentaries if given a second choice. We were going to do a binge of the American Film Institutes’s 100 greatest films when they got back from tour. When he was on leave.” She paused, feeling the lump form in her throat.

 “But you never got the chance.” Becca filled in the blank with a nod.

 “Yeah. Tried to do it on my own, but could never get through Citizen’s Kane.”

 “Oof. That one was rough to watch even when it came out. The biggest drama was that Orson Wells had based the story on William Randolph Hearst and there was a whole big stink about it. Still a wretchedly boring movie.” Becca paused. “I was too young to understand most of what was going on when Bucky took Steve and me to see it. You should ask Steve about it. He had some strong feelings about it.”

 “I’m not sure he’d talk to me. He doesn’t like to talk about the past, not with me.”

 “Don’t take it personally. It isn’t you.” Becca stopped again to find her words. “I think he very much tries to forget who he was, before all of this. And I think it’s easier for him because he was gone for so long. Unfortunately for those of us who took the long road of history, some things are harder to forget. Then again, the pain is easier to manage too. Which is why I'm glad to see someone like Samuel Wilson in his life, and of course you too dear.”

“Just in a different capacity," Maggie said.

“Of course.” Becca agreed. “Have you seen Steven’s artwork?”

“No. I mean yes, I’ve seen some of the stuff from like Museum exhibits, but none of his most recent work.”

“Would you like to see some of my personal collection?”

 “Personal collection?” Maggie raised a mischievous eyebrow.

 “Steve corresponded with me during the war, when he was on tour and of course after that. I managed to save some of them. He would also include drawings since they weren’t allowed to send photographs with anything that might compromise their position. Would you like to see them?”

 “I would love to.”

 Becca rose and shuffled off to one of the back rooms, returning minutes later with a flat, slender box, an archival box. “Sit right there," Becca instructed as Maggie started to rise to help her.

 Maggie put up her hands in surrender as Becca settled back down on the couch beside her, clutching the box to her. “You have to promise not to tell anyone what you see.”

 “Why’s that?” Maggie furrowed her brow together.

 “My dear. Captain America’s wartime drawings of his best friend, who also happens to now be a known international war criminal? The Smithsonian would be after my head for withholding them, never mind that those drawings could go for millions at auction. Particularly with all the renewed interest.” She said. She was trying to be funny, but the pain behind the words was palpable.

“Promise.” Maggie smiled gently.

“Alright.” Becca placed the box delicately on Maggie’s lap.

 Pulling off the lid, Maggie removed the first layer of tissue paper, revealing the top pencil sketch. It was James Barnes all right, in Steve’s interpretation of the famous Howling Commandos jacket. He was laughing, his eyes squinty and crinkly with laugh lines. A sniper’s rifle was slung over his shoulder. Maggie had seen a similar drawing in the Smithsonian. This one, however, was far more finished, polished with an artist’s mark and caption. "'Sergeant Barnes laughs at one of 'Cap’s’ bad jokes." The next one was again of Bucky, but this time, it was one where he wasn’t addressing the artist’s gaze. He was wearing his famous Howling Commando’s jacket. Steve, however, had drawn him graver this time. Bucky’s jaw was clenched, heavy rings around his eyes, more of a slump in his posture. “A bad day.” Is what Steve had called it. The third was Bucky asleep, face relaxed and free of lines and care. He almost looked angelic, hair falling over his face. “Snow White, waiting for true love’s first kiss.” Steve’s elegant script announced, followed by presumably Bucky’s tidy scrawl “Ha Ha Rogers, very funny, you punk.” There were several others. Bucky and the Howling Commandos. Bucky and Steve. Margaret Carter and Bucky in an almost study format. The last one, however, made Maggie pause. It was of Bucky and Steve. Only there were no Howling Commandos insignias, no signs of Captain America. Instead, it was Bucky and Steve from before the war. It looked like they were sitting on a beach. Steve’s face was gaunt and sickly, Bucky’s face boyish and round, eyes vibrant and bright, their arms slung around one another. It was dated around January 1945. Only a few weeks perhaps even days before Barnes would fall from the train. Maggie glanced down at the caption, which simply read, “Just in case.”

Maggie swallowed hard to fight back the tears that threatened to choke her. Just in case. She knew what that meant. Just in case we don’t make it, this is how we want you to remember us. And now here they were. Steve Rogers, Captain America, and Bucky Barnes...well up until recently he would’ve just been Steve Roger’s best friend and Howling Commando. Now, Barnes was the Winter Soldier. Infamous. All signs, all hints of the young men in the drawing reduced to fading pencil marks and even foggier memories. She looked up at Becca, who was watching her intently. “How much of him is left to save, Magdalene?”

Becca’s words made her flinch. Maggie had known that sooner or later they would end up here. She’d wanted to avoid that, wanted to avoid telling Becca what she’d seen. She’d asked Becca, the first day they’d met, to tell her about her brother so that Maggie didn’t have to think about the man that had slept in her barn, the man with the metal arm, the man who had ruined her life. 

“I’ve done my research, Steven won’t talk about it, but I know, I know that something has happened to him, something horrible.” Becca looked away and down at the drawing on Maggie’s lap. “He wants to protect me. He thinks he’s protecting me by not telling me what he knows, but it isn’t protection.” She glanced back up at Maggie. “You’ve spent the most time with him, you know some of what he’s become, and you won’t lie to me. Tell me what my brother has become.” 

What could she say? What did Becca want to hear? The truth, that’s what she wanted, but did Maggie even have the truth? Did she even have a partial truth? She couldn’t rightly say. She’d been given half of a brief, less than half of a brief, and had set about trying to find him. Anything and everything beyond that had come from Becca. While Maggie trusted Becca, Becca’s information was 70-year-old recollections of the brother had been, not the man who’d crawled half emaciated into Maggie’s barn. But trauma changed people. She knew that. Becca knew that. They all knew that. So what could she say to this woman about her brother? The man that Maggie had met barely resembled a person, never mind the man represented in pencil and paper before her laden with memories.

 Maggie paused, chewing on the corner of her mouth. “If I’m being honest, I’ve really tried to avoid thinking too hard about the man I found in my barn.” She began haltingly. “He isn’t the first half-dead, half-starved man who's stumbled onto my property. Several of my very good friends and volunteers started that way back when Riley was still alive. He was very sick for al lot of the time he was with me. But he was eager to help when he could be. When he found out that my barn roof was leaking and in need of repair, he replaced it for me without payment.”

 “He always was very handy. He was an odd-jobs man before the war, and when work at the docks was slow.” Becca said softly.

 “That makes a lot of sense. It was frustrating that he wouldn’t take money from me.” Maggie nodded and focused back down on the drawing.

 Steve had managed to capture Bucky’s eyes, and they shone even though it was just graphite. She wanted to reach out and touch the carefully drawn lines as if that would somehow make it, make him real. He was real though, and although the portrait held none of the anger and fear that the man in her barn and outbuilding had exhibited, there was the same intensity to them.

 “He was very quiet and watchful like he was sizing me up. Patient and still. I suppose that made him an effective sniper during the war and well after he fell from the train. I could sense he was dangerous and that he was capable of hurting me, but I never felt afraid. Perhaps I should have been, perhaps that might have spared me and my ranch everything that I’ve gone through since then, but I knew that as much as he was a danger to me, he was almost more of a danger to himself.” Maggie shook her head. “He’s scary and dangerous, and I think part of the reason Steve is so determined to find him is because he could hurt someone, even unintentionally.” She paused. Trying to find her thoughts. “But...” She said slowly. “He was afraid. He was so afraid. And yet he still stuck his neck out for me, helped out around the ranch. There was something truly....compassionate about him. I ...” Maggie shook her head again, running her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know how much of your brother is left, I couldn’t say, even with the time that I spent with him. But I do know that there is someone there worth trying to help still left in there.”

 Becca was watching her, a firm grit to her jaw, a look of determination on her face, as if bracing for the worst of it. Then when Becca realized there wasn’t anything more that Maggie was going to say, she nodded and exhaled slowly. “Thank you. For your honesty, and for looking for my brother, particularly after everything that you’ve been through because of him.”

“I do my best.” Maggie managed. What was she supposed to say? She slid the wedding bands along the chain, thoughtfully, trying to come up with something more she could say.

“It won’t hurt this way forever.” 

“What?” Maggie made eye contact with Becca. 

“Someday you’ll be able to take off those wedding bands without feeling like you’re removing a part of yourself. Not today, not for a while yet, but eventually it won’t hurt quite so much.” Becca said gently.

Maggie could feel her grip on the bands tighten, but she said nothing. 

“I’m sorry that you’re hurting. And if there is anything that I can do to help to ease that ache, you need but ask.”

Maggie nodded, clearing her throat before she spoke. “Thank you.”

 “Of course.” Becca pat her on the knee, before gently returning the drawings to their box and covering them with tissue paper. Returning them to the place she’d retrieved them from, Becca stopped as she looked at the time on the massive wall clock. “Oh gracious, is that the time?”

 “Yeah. I believe so.”

“Well, I’m afraid I have to kick you out. While I do enjoy our lunches, dear, I have a doctor’s appointment that I need to get ready for.” Becca said.

 “Everything okay?”

 “Oh, you know. Usual stuff. Getting old isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.” Becca waved her hand dismissively.

 “We still on for lunch Thursday?”

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Sounds good.” Maggie collected her things, stowing them in her satchel before rising to her feet and crossing the room to where Becca was standing.

“Is your security person around? I know Steven gets a little touchy about that sort of stuff. I can have my guy drop you off if you need me too.”

“He isn’t. But there is an ice cream shop down a few blocks. I’ll walk down there and have Fabian pick me up there. It isn’t a problem.” She smiled. “I could use the fresh air and exercise.”

Becca offered two more times to have her security person drop her off at the tower, but Maggie made it out the door and down the road toward the ice cream shop. Becca had told her about soda fountains, and all the times that Bucky and Steve had taken her there for a soda, or a scoop of ice cream, or a malt. In late August it was sweltering, and the heat rose in waves off of the concrete, and a scoop of ice cream would be the perfect solution to a long trek back to the tower. Fortunately, given the time of day, the streets were less crowded than they would be at peak rush hours, so she was able to stroll comfortably down to the ice cream shop. Minutes later she re-emerged with a scoop of vanilla bean with a cinnamon swirl in a waffle cone in lieu of a butter pecan (which they’d unfortunately been out of).

_Do I really want to call Fabian? The subway stop is well within walking distance._

She knew Sam would be unhappy, particularly that he wouldn’t like that she’d been out without her security detail. But it was a beautiful day, and while the late August heat was crushing down, she had ice cream, and she wanted to think.

_Steven wants to protect me._ Becca’s words were scathing and stinging. Maggie wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it all. Thus far she’d tried not to. It was easier to think of Barnes in the context of Becca and Steve, as a prisoner of war or a soldier missing in action, rather than the murder death machine she’d seen in the barn the day Hydra had swooped in and ruined her life.

She sighed, a persistent ache behind her eyes. _You really should try to get more sleep._ The little voice in the back of her head reminded her, with the slightest tone of irritation.

It didn’t matter what she thought of Barnes, or what Steve was or wasn’t doing. At some point, she was going to have to reconcile the two, the man and the weapon, the prisoner and the soldier, the person, and the myth. But first, she’d walk to the subway, eat her ice cream, and do her best to enjoy not being killed by Hydra.

Maggie paused at the sound, of...the sound of nothing. Something felt wrong. It was too quiet. The sounds of the street, the sound of the city itself had completely melted away into nothing. She glanced around, the street was deserted, and her stomach twisted. _You should’ve called Fabian. You’ve made a mistake._ She’d been stupid, and foolhardy and now she was going to pay.

She started walking faster. Not that it would make a difference if they wanted to take her. There wouldn’t be anything she could do to stop them. 

Terror pounded in her throat, and she could smell smoke and see the angry evil on the face of the hydra agents. What would she say? What would they make her say? She knew a lot more than she had back in April, she was more of a target now than she had ever been, and she’d been the idiot who hadn’t called her security detail.

 So what could she do? Running wasn't going to deter them, so, therefore, her only option was to fight.

 Maggie turned just in time to see none other than Natasha Romanoff drop between her and an oncoming assailant who was wielding a truncheon and a taser. She didn’t scream. She didn’t have a chance to work up a good scream. It was over before it started, and before she could so much as inhale, there were half a dozen Hydra goons strewn out on the sidewalk. 

Romanoff turned to look at her, leveling a sharp, decisive gaze on her just as the scoop of ice cream fell from the cone and onto the sidewalk with a wet splat.

“Leave it. We have to move.” The agent said, grabbing her arm, they walked along the streets a quick pace, her eyes scanning the perimeter, for what Maggie didn’t want to know and hoped they wouldn’t find out.

A transmission crackled in the agent’s earpiece, and a nondescript black suburban pulled up, and several men dressed in black climbed out, nodding at Natasha. Among them was Fabian who gave Maggie a critical and disapproving look.

Maggie climbed wordlessly into suburban, and the agents followed, Natasha sitting shotgun, they started their silent ride back to the tower.

Maggie could hear her pulse pounding in her ears and feel it behind her eyes. Her whole body felt like it was shaking, her right hand sticky from where the ice cream had melted. She focused on the road in front of her, following the route she was taking, prepared if necessary to brace for impact or to duck. Her brain was screaming a non-stop stream of profanities. It was the only thing that could keep her focused.

When they arrived in the Tower garage, Maggie released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Clambering from the vehicle, Maggie came to face with Romanoff who was waiting for her.

“I’m going to escort you back to your apartment.” She said flatly. “I need to ask you a few questions for my report.” Panic must’ve crossed her face because Romanoff added, “You’re not in trouble.”

Maggie nodded wordlessly, and Romanoff walked her the elevator. They maintained silence until they reached her apartment when Romanoff produced a universal key, “May I?” She motioned with her head to the door. “I’d like to clear your apartment.”

“Sure," Maggie said, the sickly taste of stomach bile stinging in the back of her throat.

 “On my six," Romanoff ordered, and Maggie slid into place behind her.

 There was a breathless moment as the door swung open, and they walked silently from room to room, checking behind every door before Romanoff touched her ear. “We’re clear here.”

 Then, as if her body was rejecting everything about the situation, Maggie turned to the kitchen garbage can and threw up. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, praying against all hope that when she opened her eyes again, Natasha Romanoff wouldn’t be standing there, giving her a disapproving look.

 “It’s not uncommon for your body to react that way after situations of high intensity.” The other woman's voice cut through the silence like a knife as it drifted around her in the kitchen. “You were very disciplined during all of that.” She added, turning on and off the water faucet, set a glass down beside her.

 Maggie wasn’t sure how to take 'you were very disciplined.’ It could be a very backhanded compliment if you squinted hard enough. Straightening upright, she opened her eyes and wiped at her mouth before taking the glass of water in hand. “Thanks.” She mumbled, taking a sip.

 “Doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t call your security detail when you left the Proctor residence.”

There it was, the slight note of chastisement, of ridicule. Not that it wasn’t well deserved, it was more of a time and a place thing that Maggie had an objection to, and the underlying fact that Maggie didn’t want to hear it. “Well thank goodness I have you looking out for me," Maggie said with more of a twang than she’d intended.

 “I don’t think I can understate how dangerous Hydra is, or the lengths they’ll go to re-obtain what they believe to be rightfully theirs. But I would be wasting my breath, considering.”

 “First-hand knowledge, one could even say," Maggie said dryly, glancing up at the other woman.

 There wasn’t anger, irritation, or even annoyance in her expression. There was however intrigue, and perhaps even concern on the super spy’s face. Why? Maggie couldn’t help but wonder. What was she to Romanoff? Why did she care? This was, after all, Natasha Romanoff, super-spy, Black Widow, Avenger, and bonafide badass. Maggie knew the woman could break her with her pinky finger without any effort. Yet, there was something nearly tender, perhaps even vulnerable about the way the woman was looking at her now.

 “Why are you doing this?” Romanoff asked.

 That question. Maggie hated the question, mostly because she didn’t have a good answer, at least not one that didn’t sound childish and asinine. “I cooperate, I help Steve find Barnes, Hydra stops looking for him and hunting me, I get to go home.”

 “Understandable,” Romanoff said. “But do you really believe you’ll be able to walk away after all of this?”

 Maggie didn’t flinch, and Romanoff didn’t blink. She wasn’t asking to be cruel, it was an honest question, and it was one that had been slowly creeping and growing in the corners of her mind as the days had turned to weeks and then to months. “What is it that Steve is keeping from me about Barnes? Becca Proctor senses it, and I do too.”

 “That Barnes is dangerous.”

 “So I gathered.”

 “More than you could imagine.”

 “Try me. I have a fairly vivid imagination.”

 Romanoff opened her mouth to respond but hesitated as something very nearly approaching an amused passed over her face before she smoothed her features into a neutral expression. “You should be afraid.” She said finally.

 “Who’s to say that I’m not?” Maggie replied.

“The more you know, the more of a target you make yourself," Romanoff explained.

“More than I already have? And anyway why do you give a shit?”

There was a long pause as they sized one another up. Romanoff wasn’t toying with her. Maggie knew what that looked like. No. This was something else, genuine concern, which was frankly more off-putting than if she’d just been playing cat and mouse with her in the first place.

“You did a good thing. A selfless thing. And you’re being punished for it. Being pushed into a world, into a life that most don’t choose for themselves.” She said. “You could walk away at any time, why don’t you?”

“You think I should."

“This isn’t an easy life, and it’s even more difficult to leave once you’re in it.”

“I’d rather be in control of my life than just wait around for someone else to come and save me. Witness protection or what have you didn’t seem like I’d have options.”

“That why you didn’t call Fabian?”

 “I didn’t get him in trouble, did I?”

 “There may be changes in how we run your security detail.”

Maggie snorted. “What? You’re not interested in using me as human bait? I’m collateral damage at best to people like you.” There was more bitterness in her words than she’d meant, but it was true. It ultimately didn’t matter what happened to her. She was just one piece, one part of a larger mission a larger objective that she was a part of, a mission which was focused on bringing Barnes home. What happened to her, and her life and her desires were utterly secondary to that, she knew. She just hoped that at the end of this there would be enough of her left and enough of her life left to go back to.

 “You’re clever, which makes you more than just useful, and more dangerous than just bait. Which is why the more you know, the more of a target, the more of a threat you become.”

 “Is that why Steve is withholding information from me?”

 “He wants to protect you.”

 “I don’t feel protected.”

 “He wants to give you the ability to walk away if you want.”

 “I’d rather know what I’m getting myself into. I’d rather have the truth, the whole truth. So that I can make an informed decision.”

 Romanoff nodded, “Let me see what I can find.”

 “What?” Maggie stammered, doing her best to keep her mouth from dropping open. 

“If you poke around indiscriminately, you may find things you’re unprepared for, cross a point of no return accidentally. But you should know what you’re up against, who you’re facing. The truth, or a kind of truth so that you can make an informed decision.”

Maggie opened and closed her mouth. Why would you want to do that for me? She wanted to ask, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted the answer. “Thank you.” Maggie managed finally. “And thank you for coming to my rescue this afternoon.”

 “Those men may be of strategic value.”

 “Human bait? Agent Romanoff?”

 “So to speak, Ms. Ramirez.”

 “I take it that won’t be in my morning brief.”

 “Only if relevant.”

Maggie rolled her eyes but nodded. “Well if you have any pearls of wisdom, I’d be more than appreciative, Agent Romanoff.”

“Code and encrypt your data, you don’t want anyone off the street to be able to come in and read what you’ve been up to. And keep as much of it as you can hard copy. It’s easier to destroy, harder to track that way.” 

Practical advice all around and Maggie couldn’t help but notice, tailored to her particular lack of skills as a spy, soldier, or superhero. “Any suggestions on encryption and coding? Books I should read? Methods you’d recommend?”

“I can teach you some basics if you want.”

 “If you have the time, and can spare a minute now, I would be tremendously grateful.”

“Lead the way, Ms. Ramirez.”

“Of course, Agent Romanoff.”

 Maggie led her to the office, the agent trailing behind at a respectable distance. _I’m getting spy lessons from the Black Widow._ Maggie wasn’t sure if she should scream or swoon. Whatever the case, she couldn’t help but think about what Romanoff had insinuated and what it meant. There was a point of no return. Did she cross it in the name of finding out the truth about Barnes? Or did she maintain her ignorance so that she could go home at the end of all of this? As this afternoon had shown, ignorance was not bliss, and no matter how far she stuck her head in the sand, there would always be a target on her back. 

She knew she didn’t have to cross the point of no return, not yet, not right now. But she also knew it was better to be prepared for when that moment comes when it inevitably would arrive. And if she couldn’t rely upon Steve to give her the information she needed to make that decision, she would seek that information from anywhere and anyone who would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I can’t say this enough, but jeezus poor Mags! Next time we’re going to get a bit of Bucky! I look forward to hearing what you think about this chapter!
> 
> As always, Comments, Kudos, and Subscriptions are welcome and appreciated. Please help feed the plot bunnies (i.e. love and adore me and you get updates faster). Happy Reading!


	5. Finding the Point of No Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> Recommended Listening: "Big Iron" by Johnny Cash, "The Winter Soldier" by Henry Jackman, "Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel, "Run" by AWOL Nation, It’s a Good Day by Peggy Lee, "Jukebox Saturday Night" by Glen Miller, "September" by Earth Wind and Fire, "Wake me Up When September Ends" by Green Day.
> 
> Honorable (or not so you make your judgment on that) Mention Recommendation from @tortoiseshells "Candyman" by Christina Aguilera

This wasn’t how he’d wanted this day to go. By his standards, he’d been having a fairly normal day, and normal was the best he could hope for on the best of days. He’d bought groceries, he’d eaten breakfast, and then he’d done research at the library. He’d remembered a bit more about his life before Hydra, a little bit about his family, his parents and his sisters, and a little bit about Rogers. He’d remembered how much he really hated eating boiled anything, but that he had a particularly strong hatred for boiled spinach. He’d remembered saving his pennies and buying candy bars to split with his sisters and Steve.

Unfortunately, with the good also came the bad. He’d spent the day remembering far more than he cared to about his time with Hydra. The cold. The hunger. The pain. The blood. But he’d also remembered more about _her_ , the red woman, the Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, or Natalia as he had known her back then.

She was now working with the Avengers, and with Steven Rogers to track him down and bring him in. Yet, he couldn’t find it within himself to be angry or even frustrated by her interference. It was because of their unsanctioned relationship in the Red Room that he’d been able to avoid her and Hydra this long. He’d slowly remembered her, remembered them, and the network of safe houses, dead drops, and contacts they’d established as operatives for Hydra together. As a result, it meant that she knew all the locations where he might be, and where he’d be headed next. Or where he would be if he were acting as the Winter Soldier, as the man, the operative, the asset that had worked for Hydra all those years.

So he’d done his best to avoid all those places, all those safe houses, dead drops, and contacts. However, certain things couldn’t be helped. Kiev had information that he needed, and so he’d slowly made his way through the Ukraine, aware that he was being followed, and doing his best to shake his tail. He thought he’d managed it. He’d moved quietly, erratically, at first not staying any one place more than a few days, then sometimes a week, trying to measure how close behind him they were. Now he’d been in Kiev for almost two weeks.

Then, today, he’d seen them.

Rather, Hydra had let him spot them as he was leaving the library on his way home. When he’d seen the tag team, he known what he had to do, he hadn’t even had to think about it. It was like a reflex, as natural and innate to him as breathing. He’d done it without question, a simple truth driving him. He wasn’t going to let them take him alive, but he also would make the most out of the opportunity. He needed intel.

He’d managed to take one alive, removing the cyanide capsule from the man’s back tooth before he could martyr himself.

He remembered that about Hydra agents. The precautions they took to avoid capture and information extraction. He and the Black Widow had trained together and trained other operatives on how to avoid detection and capture. He remembered watching some of the field agents have their cyanide capsule installed, as a last option should they be intercepted. He and Widow had never been given one, they were too valuable, and besides, when had they ever been caught? It was his observation only mid-range operatives were given the capsule. Low-level operatives were ostensibly cannon fodder. They were expendable and often times didn’t know enough to be dangerous to Hydra. They didn’t warrant a suicide pill. Middle-level operatives, however, like the unfortunate soul now zip-tied to a chair, knew enough to be dangerous to Hydra. They knew enough to be useful to him.

The one-room safe house they were currently occupying was dingy but was suitable for his purposes. Lit by a single bulb on a string suspended from the center of the room, the bulb cast an eerie glow on the faded and peeling wallpaper, and on the man slumped in the chair in front of him. There was a small camp bed, the aforementioned chair with the aforementioned Hydra agent tied to it, a small table, the kitchenette, and a small fridge. The chair faced the bed, which is where he was sitting watching the man as he fought his way back to consciousness.

What exactly he was going to do to the agent when he awoke, he didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about it, because he _knew_ what he would have to do, and could feel the forces beyond his control, pushing him forward at a terminal and unstoppable velocity. Was it the training? Conditioning? Or just his nature? He knew what was going to come next, and he knew that wouldn’t turn away, wouldn’t flinch in the face of what had to happen.

_You don’t have a choice. You have to do this. This is who and what you are._

But he didn’t want it to be. He didn’t want to be here, in this room, with this person, prepared to torture and kill for information. Yet here he was.

_He’s not a man, he’s a Hydra Agent. They’ve done worse to you. They will do worse to you if you let them capture you._

The man was stirring, straining against the restraints, making muffled noises through his gag, looking at him with an expression of anger and hatred, which only barely masked the fear.

“Do you know who I am?” He asked, his voice low and rough from disuse, the Russian words too familiar on his tongue.

The man gave a single firm nod.

 “Good.”

Fear overtook the anger and hatred on the man’s face, but he didn’t scream, didn’t cry out, didn’t plead. He was a professional, he was Hydra, and he would not disgrace himself in that way. Which was a shame really, because it might have inspired something other than hatred if he had.

“I am going to ask you questions. And it would be in your best interest to cooperate.” The words were ragged as they passed his lips and died as they entered the soundproofed room. There was no echo, no menace, just the truth. “Do you understand me?”

Again, the Hydra Agent nodded.

He didn’t want to do this, but he didn’t have a choice. They’d hunted and tracked him like a wild animal, and if they got a hold of him, they would do far worse than just wipe his memory. They’d already done worse while trying to re-obtain him. He didn’t want to think of the lengths they would go to bring him back into the ranks, or the consequences of when they did.

He couldn’t delay any longer. There was nothing else for it. He was wasting valuable time. He would have to move again, but only after he extracted what he needed from the agent in front of him.

He removed his gloves pausing to look at the metal prosthesis glinting in the dim light of the single bulb.

_Our past doesn’t define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow...no one wakes up a good or a bad person._

Her voice rang out so clearly in his head it almost sucked his breath away. He stopped, blinking as he tried to expel the voice with a shaking breath. He couldn’t think about her, not here, not now. Yet there she was.

_She_ _’d been a good person._ The thought rang loud and clear. _And she’d died because of it._ He didn’t plan on dying, not today.

He shoved the gloves in his pocket. Rising, he pulled the gag from the agent’s mouth.

The man took a couple of deep, panting breaths, looking up squarely at him. The fear dissolved into hatred. “Who is your commanding officer?”

“You cannot escape us. There’s nowhere you can run, nowhere you can hide where we will not find you.” He said, his breathing, “You will never be rid of us.” He knew he was going to die. These were the last brave words of a dead man.

He wasn’t going to dignify that with a direct response and so he continued without pause. “How many Hydra cells are currently operating in Eastern Europe?”

"You should just kill me, it would be easier for both of us, or has the soldier had a change of heart?” He practically laughed and there was something nearly sing-song to his voice as he continued. “I bet that little Mexican bitch made you think you could be something more than what we made you to be, didn't she, Soldat?”

His stomach lurched and he made a move to grab the man by his collar, but stopped at the smirk on the man’s face, reality dropping in around him like a ton of bricks. _I’ve made a mistake._

He dropped to the floor as spray of bullets pierced the wall. The man, the tag team, they’d been bait, a distraction, and now they’d sent even more people to come and take him back to whoever was in charge. As he waited for the hail of bullets to stop, he could feel instinct and training take over, as his desire to survive overwhelmed any discussion of _morality._ He’d made a mistake, and he would not make another. There was no choice in this, only the absolute need to get away from Hydra, at whatever cost.

He glanced at the mangled blood body of what had once been his captive, and couldn’t help but feel a momentary pang of pity and regret. _You were going to gut him like a fish, and he would’ve done the same to you in a heartbeat._ He tried to remind himself. _Yes, but it might have meant something if he’d managed to get intel off him._ Well, there was more where he’d come from.

Cut off one head, and two more would take its place. Or at least that’s what he’d been told. So, for now, he’d keep running, and keep cutting and cutting until he found what he was looking for.

First, he’d have to make it out and to the next place without being captured. For now, all that mattered was survival, namely his own. That was the only thing that _could_ matter.

 

_***_

_She was walking down a bustling street in Brooklyn, it was familiar, but distant like she_ _’d seen it all in photographs before. In fact, she was sure she had seen it in photographs. She was also vaguely aware that she was still her but different. Wearing clothing like she’d seen her grandmother and great-grandmother wear during the 1930s and 40s._

_“_ _Maggie! Maggie!”_

_She turned around on the bustling street to see none other than Becca Barnes, no more than fifteen or sixteen, running toward her._

_“_ _Becca! Becca slow down!”_

_Maggie looked further down to see Steve following behind her, weaving through the throngs of people, an exasperated expression on his face._

_“_ _Steve and I were going to meet Bucky for a soda! You should come with us!” Becca said, grabbing Maggie's hand with her own._

_Maggie glanced over Becca's shoulder at Steve, who had finally fought his way through the crowd._

_“Ms. Ramirez.” Steve nodded. He was small like in all the photos she’d seen of him prior to the war. Features gaunt, small, and frail as anything but his eyes were bright, something truly mischievous and lively to them._

_"_ _Mr. Rogers.” She returned the nod, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth._

_“_ _Well, come on! Bucky’s going to think we’ve forgotten.” Becca grabbed Steve’s arm with her free hand and locked arms with both of them._

_“_ _I don’t see what the big deal is Bec.” Steve practically rolled his eyes. “It’s not like Buck hasn’t met a hundred of your friends before.”_

_Becca rolled her eyes, sticking out her tongue._ _“Ignore him.” She told Maggie._

_Maggie laughed,_ _“Steve has a point.” She began, but Becca shot her a look. “Lead the way then.”_

_They proceeded down the street with ease, despite walking three across, and before Maggie could make a comment of this they were there and Becca was leading the charge inside. Steve unlocked his arm with Becca, holding the door open for them. Maggie hesitated in the doorway._

_“Not nervous, are you?” Steve grinned devilishly._

_"Shouldn’t I be, after all that I’ve heard about the famous James Barnes.”_

_"Don’t worry. You’re in no danger, I promise.” Steve chuckled, patting her amicably on the shoulder._

_“_ _Thanks, Rogers.”_

_"Any time, Ramirez."_

_They walked into the soda counter where Becca was talking with a man at the bar in low tones, edging on an argument._ _“I don’t need you to pick up girls for me Bec.”_

_"_ _Is that what’s happening? It would explain why I was virtually kidnapped and whisked away without so much as an explanation.” Maggie cut in sliding onto one of the stools at the counter a few seats away from where the argument between Becca and her older brother was taking place._

_“_ _A root beer please.” She removed the correct coinage from her handbag and handed it to the clerk, trying her damndest to ignore the conversation happening a few stools away._

_"That her?” Barnes mumbled, motioning not too inconspicuously to her with his head._

_Becca nodded,_ _“Maggie. I’d like to introduce you to my know it all idiot older brother, James Barnes.”_

_“_ _Call me Bucky.”_

_Maggie looked up into the face of James_ _“Bucky” Barnes. He was clean-shaven, hair slightly mussed from having hands repeatedly run through the chestnuts tresses. There was a sparkle in his eyes, playful and yet even then there was the smallest hint of uncertainty in his otherwise jaunty expression. His face was handsome and young, the cares of adult life were set on his face but had yet to harden. Maggie found that she wanted to make that face laugh, make that mouth turn up in a smile._

_“_ _A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnes," Maggie said, dryly as the root beer was set in front of her._

_“The pleasure's all mine Miss..."_

_"Ms. Ramirez." She supplied firmly._

_"A pleasure to meet you Ms. Ramirez." He pushed an errant lock of hair out of his face as casually as he could manage in the given circumstances. "So how do you know my little sis?"_

_“_ _Steven introduced us!” Becca supplied helpfully._

_“Oh. Did he?_ _” He said as he glanced between Steve and Becca, looking for further explanation._

_Steve shrugged as he mounted one of the bar stools, ordering a coke._

_“_ _Well, as you said, Mr. Barnes. You don’t need your kid sister picking up girls for you.”_

_"Bucky’s just fine doll.”_

_“_ _Doll?” Maggie laughed, taking a sip of her root beer. “I’m not your doll, Barnes.”_

_Bucky exchanged a private glance with Steve that she couldn_ _’t read before he turned back to her. “I’d like to buy you a drink, to apologize for my behavior earlier.”_

_“_ _I'm sure you would."_

_“_ _Another root beer perhaps?” He suggested, moving onto the stool beside her._

_Maggie looked back up at that face and into those eyes and that mouth._ _“A scoop of ice cream for this one...perhaps.” She said, taking another sip through the straw._

_“_ _Done.” He said, corner of his mouth quirking up in a playful smile. She watched as he pulled his wallet from his trousers, noting his arms, which were muscular and well-toned under the sleeves of his button-down collared shirt, the sleeves rolled and cuffed just above the elbow, the was his forearms narrowed to his wrists which looked somehow delicate._

_Steve cleared his throat, and Maggie could feel herself hide the hint of a blush as she looked for somewhere else to focus her attention. The scoop of ice cream arrived, and Barnes motioned for her glass, which she pushed toward him, wordlessly watching as he delicately added the ice cream to her glass of root beer._

_“_ _I’m sorry about earlier." He commented as he carefully spooned the ice cream into her glass. "My sister can be a bit...”_

_“_ _Enthusiastic?” She offered._

_“_ _Yeah.” He nodded, looking up at her as he slid her glass back to her._

_“_ _So I couldn’t help but notice.” She took the spoon from his outstretched hand and maneuvered it into the frosted glass._

_“_ _How do you know Steve?” He continued after a moment._

_“_ _We work together.”_

_"Ah. That makes sense. Funny, he hasn’t mentioned you is all.”_

_“_ _Well I’m fairly new, and you can’t really expect Steve to tell you about all the dames and dolls he works with, can you?” She teased with a soft chuckle._

_“_ _Perhaps then just the ones as beautiful as you are, Ms. Ramirez.”_

_Maggie could feel herself blush, and she took a sip of the root beer float to buy herself time to simmer down._ _“So what about you? You work at the shipyard don’t you?” She asked. It was banal but would divert attention away from herself._

_“_ _When I can. Pays not half so bad when you can get steady work, but I take work where I can.” He shrugged._

_“_ _Anything in particular?” Maggie asked._

_“_ _Oh, the odd job here and there. I’ve done carpentry, plumbing, electrical, a little bit of masonry.” A wicked smile spread over his face. “You could say I’m pretty good with my hands.”_

_“_ _I’m sure you are Mr. Barnes.” She said as sweetly as she could manage.“I am sorry for the intrusion. I’m sure you were looking forward to having a drink with your sister and friend.”_

_“_ _Well. We’re friends, aren’t we?” He asked._

_“_ _Are we Mr. Barnes?”_

_“_ _I think that depends on you, Ms. Ramirez?”_

_Maggie found herself lost in those eyes, watching her intently, his brows furrowed thoughtfully. Everything about him was so earnest and sincere, and she just wanted to cup his face in her hands._ _Bucky put his hand on top of hers. It was warm and completely enveloped hers, and she could see a look of tremendous satisfaction cross his expression_

_“Your hands are cold, doll.” He chuckled, his voice a low rumble in his chest._

_“_ _I think it’s the ice cream, Mr. Barnes.” She stammered, pulling her hand away._

_His smile faded, and he looked at her with a serious expression. “You need to wake up doll. They’re looking for you.” His voice seemed to echo. “Wake up.”_

Maggie woke with a start, her heart pounding as her phone buzzed by her head. The motion-activated lights had turned off, and the only light in the room was from her monitor, which had sprung to life when she had. It was 5:00 am.

It had been all hands on deck, they’d had an honest to god Winter Soldier sighting, in the aftermath of what appeared to be an altercation with Hydra goons. There had been at least. 16 people killed, with lord knows how many who’d been able to crawl away before Sam, Steve and Romanoff arrived.

She checked her phone. 'Finally made it back in. Have some stuff for you from Romanoff. Be by as soon as I’ve had a chance to shower and grab a quick nap.’

Maggie sighed, setting the phone back down. They hadn’t found him, at least not yet. Sam had flown back, while Steve and Romanoff had continued to follow the trail. They were only a few hours behind him. Though Maggie had a sinking suspicion that Barnes was in the wind yet again and that they would have to wait for another chance encounter before he’d appear on their radar again.

She wanted to be hopeful, wanted to believe that this might be it. That they might have finally caught the break they’d been waiting for since May, that in a matter of hours they might have their guy and that she might be one step closer to going home.

It was a vain, shallow hope that she could still go home. They hadn’t even found the guy yet. Even then, what would they do once they found him? What was the chance that he would come quietly? He was obviously in no rush to reunite with Steve and was doing his damndest to stay off Hydra’s radar. Their radar too.

Becca’s question persisted. How much of the James Barnes that Steve and Becca knew was left to bring home? Did he remember Steve? Did he remember anything before the fall in 1945? It was a valid question. The man had spent nearly seventy years in Hydra’s clutches. That tended to change people.

_Yeah, it made him dangerous._

Romanoff’s warning had stayed with Maggie, and with it a growing anxiety, a growing need to shove away and ignore the reality of her situation. The deeper she got into this, the more of a target became, and being in the crosshairs of someone like either the Winter Soldier or those who wanted to acquire him for their own wasn’t something she wanted any part of.

The spy had helped teach her coding and encryption, and from there, Maggie had started playing with ciphers, and other methods of data protection. She’d gotten comfortable enough that she’d been able to create her own ciphers, and had entirely rewritten her journal to better protect what she knew. Romanoff wasn’t wrong, and she didn’t want just anyone to know what she’d found out about Barnes. He was dangerous too and Hydra was far too eager to get him back in their clutches for her to take any more chances or stupid risks.

So she had Becca’s question and Natasha’s warning along with all of the information and data, and stories, and photographs she could ever wish for and never wanted battling for dominance in her brain. How exactly she was supposed to navigate that whole minefield, Maggie wasn’t sure. Her brain, however, had certainly taken its own route with that and had been more than creative with how it was outputting all of the information she was processing.

The dream.

Maggie was almost entirely sure that was due to her time with Becca. Becca had filled their hours together with stories of her older brother, her sisters, and of course, Steve Rogers. She’d shown Maggie all of the old family albums and talked about her husbands, Gabriel Martinez and Robert Proctor, and of course her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, by both blood and by association. It was a welcome break from the monotonous daily life in the tower.

This inundation of information had led to dreams. Dreams about Barnes in increasingly cutesy 1930s or 40s settings. He was a charmer, or at least that’s what she’d gathered from Becca. James Barnes was funny and handsome, and always popular with women, and men from the sounds of everything, and now he was appearing in her dreams and trying to sweep her off her feet.

_Yeah, he also just killed sixteen people, and we’re calling that a mild day._

_Well, not exactly people?_ It should’ve surprised her how easily she’d made that leap. But it didn’t. After all, they were Hydra Agents, the same Nazi organization that had knocked down her door, tortured her, and set her house ablaze. Of course this was the same very same organization that had imprisoned and tortured and made Barnes their operative for seventy years. She should’ve felt pity, felt sorry for those lives that had been taken. But she didn’t.

She sighed, turning her thoughts back to the apparition of 1940s James Barnes that had started gracing what little sleep she’d been getting. The dreams had been happening more frequently since July 4th and showed no sign of stopping. While a little off-putting, the 1940s James Barnes dreams were a nice break from her reoccurring falling nightmare. The one that had plagued her since Riley’s passing and had only increased in frequency since the ranch had burned down because of Hydra. So far as weird and obsessive things currently plaguing her, dreaming about meeting the guy at a soda fountain ranked pretty far down on worrying obsessive behavior.

She’d been “dead” now almost six months. She didn’t like to think of that, think of how long she’d been away from her clients, her house, her friends, her _life_ for that long. She didn’t like to imagine what it had done to the community, to the people of last chance. She tried not to think about the fact that she’d put all of her client’s names on a google alert, to get push notifications if their names appeared in the local newspapers or TV. And there was really only one reason why they’d show up. Maggie tried to ignore the sheer dread and terror that she felt every time any alert appeared on her phone. Thankfully, she’d never gotten any of _those_ notifications, not yet.

Maggie rose to her feet and brushed haphazardly at the Dorito dust and crumbs clinging to her leggings and baggy t-shirt. Leaning over, she ran her fingers through her greasy hair, winding the mass into a bun, securing the ends with Bobby pins, too exhausted to fiddle one-handed with a hair band or a scrunchy.

_You’ll be getting your cast off soon, that’ll be good!_ She tried to be positive, but it was difficult when she knew that there would be PT after that, and only _then_ would they know the extent of the damage that Hydra had done with Great Aunt Millie’s marble rolling pin.

Pausing, she looked up at the large map, spread across the wall, and riddled with pins, a majority of them black-headed. Dead Ends.

_If I was running from Hydra and my best friend, and I trying to stay off the grid where would I go?_ She couldn’t help but wonder as her eyes scanned all the places they’d looked, all of the leads they’d followed without avail.

_No._ She’d been thinking about this all wrong. It wasn’t where. It was why. Why would these locations be of interest? What was he looking for? Why was he risking moving at all if he could just dig in some where and avoid detection?

Maggie turned to her desk, yanking open the drawers she grabbed out a ball of red yarn, pins, and several files. Dragging over a chair to the map, she wrapped the loose end of the yarn around the pin indicating Last Chance Ranch and started to work. Her head pounded and heart raced as she focused on what she was doing, wrapping the yarn around strategic pins, adding documents and photographs and linking them here and there. Something was starting to come into focus, something just out of her reach, just beyond the point of enunciation.

“Mags. Mags you okay?”

“Huh?” She turned with a start to the doorway of the office where Sam was standing, watching her uncertainly. “Oh. Hey. I didn’t hear you come in.” She stammered, glancing back at the map and documents all connected with a messy, knotted mass of red yarn. The moment of inspiration passed, and reality crashed in around her. _Damn._ And she’d really thought she’d had something.

“You okay?” Sam asked. “It looks like a serial killer’s lair in here.”

Maggie turned fully to Sam and nodded, “Yeah I had a thought... it...it’s a work in progress. You up for some coffee, or have you had a nap already?” She didn’t know how long she’d been working on the serial killer flow chart, or how long it had been since Sam had texted her, but she could feel the sleepless days that had proceeded weighing down on her, and that even if he didn’t want a cup of coffee, she’d need at least two to three pots to herself remain functional for the next six to twelve hours.

“Nap wasn’t happening, figured you’d be up, and we could go get breakfast.”

“Appreciate it Sammie, but I don’t think I’m in any condition to leave the apartment at the moment. Not without some serious assistance first,” She said.

“I can make breakfast here, or we can order in.” Sam countered quickly.

“All right. Breakfast here sounds good. You have something for me from Romanoff?”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded, producing a large Manila envelope, with a note rubber banned to it. The note had her name on it, very clearly in the agent’s handwriting.

“Set it on my desk. I’ll get to it later.” Maggie said her gaze not breaking from the massive envelope in Sam’s hand, aware that a tight knot had started forming in her chest, making her voice warble uncertainly. She’d been given any number of files from Romanoff. This one, however, had particular menace.

“You okay?” Sam asked for the third time in the last five minutes. She broke her stare on the envelope and met his curious expression, his brow furrowed as he surveyed her.

"Yeah. Fine. Haven’t been sleeping well.” She mumbled, rubbing her eyes, as if way of an explanation.

“Well, go get the coffee going, I’ll be in right behind you," Sam said.

Maggie nodded, padding from the office in socked feet, she started about the mindless task of making coffee.

_Is Sam concerned?_ The thought crossed her mind unbidden, and it took her a moment to both absorb and wrap her mind around the idea. It was strange to think of him being concerned. What was there to be concerned about when it came to her? She wasn’t the two tour combat veteran who was currently paling around with Captain America trying to track down a guy who just plowed down sixteen people and had still managed to disappear without a trace. Sure Maggie knew Sam cared about her, and what happened to her, but concern just didn’t seem... didn’t seem like something that he should expend on her.

“So what are we feeling? Bacon and eggs? French toast? Waffles? Pancakes? Or do we want something fancier?” Sam’s voice broke through the thick fog of thoughts that had been swirling around her as he entered the kitchen and grabbed the apron hanging from the hook that she still hadn’t used since she’d moved in.

“Oh. Umm.” She stammered, her brain trying and failing to focus on the task at hand. “Yeah, whatever you want.”

Sam stopped, turning squarely to face her. “What’s going on, Mags?”

“I’m fine, Sam, just got a little lost in my head there a moment.” She focused back down on the stovetop percolator that was just beginning to bubble.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asked slowly.

What was there to talk about? There was nothing he could say that she was really interested in hearing, and there was nothing she could say that would convince him that she was a whole and functional human being at the present time. “When’s Steve supposed to be back?”

“It’ll be in the next 36 to 48 hours depending. Nat said she’d go on without him as for as long as 72 hours, but they weren’t very optimistic about uncovering anything that would lead them to Barnes.”

“I’m sure you and Steve be glad to be back in the same time zone together for the first time in a while.” She said as casually as she could manage.

“Yeah,” Sam hesitated. “Mags, about that. Steve...Steve and I.”

“You don’t have to divulge your private life to me, Sam.” She cut him off as she reached up into the cabinet for two coffee mugs.

“Steve and I are dating. I thought you should know.” Sam said powering through, his voice even and slow. “I didn’t want to make it awkward around the office.”

“I appreciate the heads up, but I sorta worked it out myself," Maggie replied, setting both mugs down, she met Sam’s expectant gaze.

Sam was waiting, waiting for her comment, her scorn, her anger. Something. Anything. What did he want her to say? What was there to say? What could she say? They weren’t partners, they’d never dated. They’d be two parts of one man’s life. Now that man was gone and they were left to pick up the pieces.

“I’m happy for you, Sam." Maggie smiled, turning to the coffee mugs and the now bubbling percolator.

“Are you?”

His question hung in the air. She was, on a basic fundamental level happy for Sam. Riley had loved Sam, and in her own way, Maggie had loved Sam too. Riley would want Sam to be happy, wouldn’t want him to feel guilty, or spend the rest of his life miserable, and Maggie didn’t want that for him either. Yet, Maggie knew she would be lying to herself if she didn’t at least recognize there was a part of her that was jealous, and angry, and upset. Not so much at anyone in particular, but just at the situation itself. Sam was moving on, and she just _couldn’t._

“Of course I am. Steve’s a great guy, and you seem happy. I’m happy that you’re happy.” She meant every word, and she felt them in her heart and soul. But the words sounded brittle, almost tinny in her ears, and probably sounded disingenuous, at best, to Sam. “Seriously. I don’t begrudge you dating again. Even when Riley was around we weren’t in a closed relationship. He’d be happy for you, and I am too.”

Sam nodded, “He’d want you to be happy too, Mags.”

“I know Sammie. I just don’t think that’s in the cards for me right now. Not until we find Barnes and I can get back to the ranch.”

Sam winced, but said nothing, turning to the fridge.

“What, Sam?” She sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

“It’s nothing you want to hear, Mags.” He shook his head.

“Just say it."

“It’s gone Mags. The house, the ranch, the people that made it your home is gone. _He’s_ gone, and there’s nothing any of us can do to change that.”

_And who’s fault is that?_ She wanted to scream. _You were the one who re-upped with him, you were the one who was with him when he died, you were the one who never came back to the ranch back to our home to make it work after he died, you were the one who painted a target on my back by teaming up with Captain America. You’re the reason I’m here, and you’re the reason why there’s no home to go back to._

Maggie couldn’t say it. She wouldn’t say it. She wanted to, but what would be the point? It wasn’t true, and it was unfair to Sam and to everything he’d done to help his healing process after everything that had happened. It wasn’t his fault she was trapped here. It wasn’t his fault she’d volunteered to help rather than take the witness protection offer. He was one of her only friends, never mind the only person from her old life who knew she was alive. She really didn’t have many options here.

Maggie shook her head and cleared her throat. “So did we decide on what we were eating?”

“So you’re really going to shut me out like that, huh?”

She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Sam.” She said wearily, picking up the coffee percolator and filling the two mugs.

“You don’t have to do this, Mags.”

Maggie looked back up at the ceiling, blinking as she realized tears were starting to form in her eyes. She squeezed both eyes shut, and took several long breaths before opening them again. “I’m tired, Sammie.” She answered after a moment, the slightest warble in her voice. “But if I stop now, I don’t think I’ll have the strength to get back up and keep going. So I’m going to do my bit, and help you and Steve and Romanoff bring Barnes in. Then I’ll get to go back to my house, and my horses, and my life, and then maybe, after all of that I’ll be able to catch a break. I’ll be able to rest, and recover, and heal from all the shit that’s happened to me. But right now. I just need to focus on getting through this, and if that means being a little delusional and thinking that maybe there will be something left going back to when this is all over, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

“You’re not alone, you know that right?” Sam said slowly.

Maggie tried to laugh, but it came out as a harsh choked sound, watery from the tears that were silently slipping down her cheeks. “I dunno, I feel pretty damn alone.” She shook her head, wiping her face with her sleeve. “But I guess that can’t be helped at the moment. All things considered.”

Sam nodded. Wordlessly turning back to the fridge he began rummaging around in the shelves. His jaw was set firmly as he worked, and Maggie knew he was trying to come up with something to say. That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? What could he possibly say that wouldn’t sound like the same hollow empty platitudes she’d received immediately after Riley had died, or when her grandfather, or mother, or brother had passed away? 'We’re here for you if you need anything.’ It was an empty, meaningless statement. Well-intentioned, but it required no work, no effort, nothing on the part of the person saying it, and they could pat themselves on the back with a job well done. They had after all offered their assistance. It would be on the recipient to take them up on their open offer of _anything._ Whatever the hell that meant.

 “It’s enough that you’re here with me right now.” She managed, dumping several spoons of sugar and a splash of milk into her coffee before taking a long, scalding draw from the mug.

“Is it? Enough?” Sam asked without glancing up at her.

“I think it has to be, Sammie.” Maggie cleared her throat. “So what are you making us today?” She smiled, though it felt grim and forced.

“Just figured bacon and eggs and toast. If you’d like I can make some freshly squeezed orange juice too.”

“That sounds wonderful. Mind if I put on some music?”

“Not at all.”

Maggie turned on some Earth Wind and Fire, and they fell into a rhythm, not really talking except to ask one another for kitchen implements or to occasionally sing along with the music. Soon enough they were sitting around the kitchen island eating contentedly in relative silence.

“So any plans for today? You going to see Becca Proctor?” Sam asked, clearing away the dishes.

“No. She had to cancel our lunch date. Doctor’s appointment and her son James is in town. I think I convinced Becca to go through some of the family albums with him.” She replied. “They’re also getting ready for Rosh Hashanah I think. So I won’t see much of the Proctors until October.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Probably go through the files you gave me from Romanoff, shower, wash my hair. That sort of thing,” She shrugged.

“We could go grab dinner if you’d like. It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to go out together.” Sam suggested.

“I’d like-”

Maggie was cut off by the sound of Sam’s phone buzzing. Turning off the sink’s faucet, Sam grabbed his phone and swore under his breath. “Sorry, Mags. I gotta take this.” He said quickly, walking into the other room.

She tried her very best not to sigh and roll her eyes. They’d been so close to having a moment, and then duty called. It always called. But that was the life, wasn’t it? It was something she’d learned as a military wife and partner and she had been constantly reminded of that since she’d come to Avengers Tower. There was part of her that understood, but there was another part of her, the angry, bitter, jealous part of her that hated it and hated everything to do with the concept of duty, honor, and sacrifice. Those things never brought peace, they brought pain, and she knew plenty about that.

Sam walked back into the kitchen a few moments later, a hesitant expression on his face. “Steve and Nat have some things they need me to check out, I have to go,” Sam said. “We’ll have to do a rain check on dinner.”

_Naturally._ She thought sourly.

Maggie nodded. “Totally understand. Gotta do what you gotta do.” She said as pleasantly as she could manage as she rounded the kitchen island to stand squarely in front of him. “Be safe. I’ll cash that rain check when you get back.” Maggie went up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

Sam put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her forehead before they parted. “Be good. I’ll see you soon.”

“Don’t do anything stupid Samuel Wilson.” She smiled as they walked to the front door.

“I’ll do my best. No promises, though.” He chuckled.

They hugged and then he left without another word.

Maggie sighed as Earth Wind and Fire belted out the lyrics to 'September.’ She wasn’t quite feeling that level of energy at the moment.

“Music off!” Maggie called, and the apartment went quiet.

And here she was, alone again. Maggie glanced into the office at the desk where the files sat from Romanoff.

_Well, not quite alone._

She walked over to the desk, folding herself into the chair, and pulled the note rubber-banded Manila envelope. It was addressed to her, encoded, and in Romanoff’s handwriting.

Once Maggie managed to decipher the note it read. 'This is the point we talked about. Proceed with caution. If you chose to proceed, I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.’

Maggie exhaled, her gaze turning to the large envelope in front of her. _There could be anything in there._ She could feel her stomach twist at the thought, her anxiety skyrocketing, her hands shaking. And then a single thought pierced through the din.

_I can have the truth, or I can go home. There is no in-between._

She leaned back in the office chair, rubbing her hand over her face.

The more she knew, the more of a target she would become. Was she prepared for that, Emotionally? Physically? Was she ready to deal with the consequences of everything that meant? _If I don’t look through those files, I might miss something that could help lead us to Barnes._

Maggie shook her head. No. That wasn’t quite right. Romanoff had looked through those files. Romanoff knew what was in them. If there were something in them that warranted immediate attention, she would’ve shown Sam or Steve. No. This was about their conversation, about Barnes being dangerous, about Steve not telling her and Becca the whole truth. This wasn’t just helping someone find their best friend, this was about who that best friend had become.

Maggie thought about the dream. Her in pin curls and Barnes in suspenders drinking a root beer float at a soda counter. Would it be so bad to continue to live in her ignorance? To think of this person in a way contrary to reality? In the way his little sister had seen him some seventy years before? Maggie had seen who he’d become, the end result of seventy years of captivity and torture and coercion. It had cost her her life and livelihood. Did she really need to know how he had gotten to that point?

If she looked at these files if she continued, there would be consequences. She would never be able to go home. That’s what Romanoff had said. She couldn’t stop, she couldn’t walk away, so she would just keep plodding along as she had been for almost six months. Just keep trucking along, helping Sam and Steve as she had been for the past six months. She’d help them bring in Barnes, and be able to catch her break. She didn’t need to know the truth, in fact, it was probably better, she knew, if she didn’t. She could keep thinking of Barnes as an abstraction, as a distant memory, as a sweet 1940s flavored dream, if that meant at the end of all of this, she got to go back to her life.

Maggie rose to her feet, opening the bottom drawer of her desk, and slid the large parcel into the drawer before shutting and locking it. She wouldn’t pass the point of no return, not now, perhaps not ever. For the moment, for now, all that mattered was survival, namely her own. That was the only thing that could matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did we think? I hope you all enjoyed! We got a little bit of Winter Soldier! Bucky, a little bit of VintageDream!Bucky this chapter. I'd love to know what you all think! We also got to see a bit more of the Mags/Sam interactions. Which of course I love. 
> 
> A special shout out to all of you who commented and left Kudos. You really are excellent, thank you so much for leaving comments, it makes this hobby all that more rewarding and writing all the easier!
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, and subscriptions are welcome!
> 
> Happy Reading!


	6. Day of the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Volver, Volver by Vicente Fernandez, Vamonos by Ana Gabriel, La Llorona by Angela Aguilar, All my Ex Live in Texas by George Strait, Mad World Gary Jules
> 
> For this chapter, there are some extra trigger warnings. Just be advised.
> 
> TW: Violence/Assassination Mention, mention of death, mention of suicide/murder, seizure mention

Steve didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

A 'Day of the Dead” celebration. Neither Sam nor Ramirez has been particularly forthcoming with details.

'It’s a celebration of those you’ve lost, and commemorating their memory.’ Ramirez had supplied.

'Dude, Mags makes the best tamales and Mexican sweet bread.’ Sam had urged.

Only now Sam was out of town, and so he was going it alone. He didn’t mind it, exactly. He’d asked her multiple times what he could bring, to which she’d waved him off. So he’d turned to the Wikipedia article on 'Dia de Muertos.’ It had been instructive on what the holiday was but hadn’t given much in the way of what one should bring to such an occasion. Eventually, he’d selected some wine that he hoped would pair nicely with whatever she was serving.

Tamales are what the Wikipedia article had said were traditionally served, along with different types of sweet bread and beverages. It had also said that offerings were left out to those who were deceased. Their favorite food and drinks to entice them to come for a visit. It wasn’t a wholly foreign concept. He was just unsure of how he fit in, and why Ramirez was so insistent that he come and celebrate with her.

That was another thing. When she’d first invited him over for A Day of the Dead celebration it had been him and Sam. Only now Sam was out of town, and so he was going alone. He didn’t mind it, exactly. It was only...well she knew he and Sam were dating. She’d taken it fine, according to Sam but this would be the first time they’d be one on one since she’d found out. Steve knew Ramirez would be perfectly civil, he just didn’t know what to expect from her in this particular situation.

He paused outside the apartment door, hand raised, poised to knock, his brain arguing that it wasn’t too late, that he could still make a run for it, and she would never know. Then he heard it, ballad-like music in Spanish seeping into the hallway from the apartment, her voice singing along. It struck Steve as he listened a moment how sad and mournful the song sounded, even though he couldn’t understand all of the words, and how rich, and strong, and sure her voice was as she sang along.

_I can’t leave her to celebrate alone._

Steve knocked and listened as the singing and music stopped on the other side of the door. The door swung open, and he was greeted by Ramirez who stood in the doorway, smiling broadly “Steve!” Ramirez went up on tiptoes to hug him.

Steve stooped to return her embrace. “Hi.” He managed.

“I’m so glad you could make it! Ramirez stepped back, breaking the embrace, “I wasn’t sure you’d come!”

There was the slight twinge of guilt that twisted momentarily in his stomach. “I was told you’re an excellent cook. I wouldn’t miss out on an opportunity to see what Sam is talking about.”

“Oh, Sam.” Ramirez laughed, rolling her eyes with a wry smile. “Good to know he has his priorities straight. Come in, come in.” She ushered Steve inside the apartment, moving them effortlessly from the entryway into the interior of the open concept kitchen. He stopped as he was hit with the rich scent of hundred of flowers, mixed with the smell of sugar and warm bread, which also mingled with the steaming tamales, beans, and rice.

Not much had changed since she’d first moved in back in May. He’d been in her apartment with relative frequency. They held weekly briefings, and even more frequent mini-meetings, and in that entire time she’d never personalized any of the furnishings or decorations of the sterile, minimalist apartment, outside of the craigslist couch in the office.

Now, for the first time, the apartment seemed to resemble something close to what Steve could describe as Ramirez's home, something indicative of who she was as a person.

Massive bouquets of marigolds and roses filled vases that covered almost every flat surface in the apartment. A table had been set up with photographs in frames displayed in tiers. Plates and glasses filled with food and drink were positioned carefully before each of the photographs. There were also Pan de Muerto and Calaveras set out around the makeshift altar. The Calaveras were each about the size of his fist and were heavily decorated, each with a name painted or piped onto the forehead of the skull. There was a multitude of fake candles placed around the altar, that flickered and cast a warm glow around the whole thing.

Steve glanced over at Ramirez who stood beside him, watching quietly as he took in the whole scene, and was struck by how her appearance had also altered dramatically. She was wearing an apron tied around her waist, but under rather than her usual leggings and baggy t-shirt she wore a gauzy black dress with floral embroidery on the yoke. Her hair was in a low bun, and there was a marigold and a rose stuck into the base, near the nape of her neck. Her feet were bare, but she’d painted her toes a rose red. She looked more at ease, more relaxed, more quintessentially Magdalene Ramirez than she had the entire time he’d known her.

“You look a little lost Steve, do you want an explanation?” Ramirez’s voice broke the silence.

“No. No.” His shook his head, his gaze returning to the array of portraits on the altar. These weren’t the same photographs Sam had gone into the house for. Steve could still hear Ramirez screaming, begging Sam to save her Ofrenda. She’d been delirious, as she’d clung to consciousness, but had been absolutely adamant about saving them. Sam had only been able to retrieve a few of the things from the burning house. “How many did Sam save?” He asked softly without looking over at her.

“In the end, he was only able to really save my grandmother’s Our Lady of Guadalupe Statue, my grandfather’s rosary, and Riley’s dog tag. Everything else was too burnt to salvage. Fortunately, everything I had on the altar at home was either a copy, or I had digitized previously which Sam was able to get from my firebox since he’s the executor of my estate.” She answered slowly, her words tinged with an audible pain. She stared at the Ofrenda a moment, before shaking her head and clearing her throat. She looked up at him with a small thin smile. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Yes. Please.” He nodded.

“Let me take the wine, and we can let it breathe a moment, while I introduce you to the clan, then we can eat.” She said, taking the bottle from his unresisting hand.

Steve followed her to the kitchen, watching as she rounded the island and removed a corkscrew from the drawer. Her left hand grasped the neck of the bottle. She’d had her cast removed almost three weeks prior, and the white surgical scars on her left hand and wrist were garish in the kitchen light.

He took a step forward and opened his mouth. “Let me have my dignity on this Steve. If I want help, I’ll ask.” Ramirez said shortly before he could say anything.

“Okay.” He put his hands up and stepped away.

“Thank you, Steven," Her eyes were focused down on the bottle, and after a moment she removed the cork.

“I hope it goes with Tamales," Steve said uncertainly as she sniffed the cork.

“A bottle of wine shared with friends pairs perfectly with any dish.” She smiled up at him. “Now. We’ll let the wine breathe, and I can introduce you to everyone.” Ramirez took his hand and led him over to the altar. “All right.” She said slowly, her eyes first scanning him before she turned her attention to the photos.

First, there was Riley, a formal photo in his military dress uniform, and his parents, Francine and Edward Underdhal in a candid photo. Then there was her maternal grandparents, Tomas and Ignacia Valdez in an old black and white wedding photograph. There was also her mother and brother, Maria and Antonio Ramirez, represented by a candid of her mother, and her brother’s graduation photo. There were also several other photos, former clients and friends. She explained quickly who everyone was, and each of their corresponding food and drink.

In Steve’s view, it verged on being downright morbid. Yet watching Ramirez’s expression and tone, there wasn’t anything particularly pained. If anything, there was a depthless tenderness to her features as she spoke.

It was...well endearing felt condescending for the situation but comforting to see that she trusted him enough to invite him over and share this tradition with him.

_If not with me, then who?_

She didn’t have anyone else. He noted that. Grandparents, mother, brother, husband, husband’s parents, friends, all of them dead and gone. He'd noticed that her father wasn’t on the Ofrenda, but he wasn’t going to venture to ask. Of course, there was also the complication of her being “dead.” Would she still have celebrated if both he and Sam had been out of town? Would she have carried on without anyone here but her? He didn’t know for sure, but he had a hunch.

“Well. Enough with my dead relatives and friends. I think the wine has breathed long enough, and the rice and beans and mole for the tamales should be ready!” Ramirez announced as she concluded the Ofrenda introduction and started back to the kitchen.

Steve turned to follow but paused, glancing back at the altar, and at the faces that looked back at him. Some smiling, some serious, some candid, some staged. Each of them was a person she’d loved and lost. He could only imagine the size of the altar he would need to display photos of all those he’d lost, and all those he would likely lose sooner than later. How could she do it? Carry on after all that loss? He glanced up at the photograph of Riley, meeting the man’s distant gaze. _I’m sorry._ He wanted to say. Sorry that he was here and that Riley was gone. Sorry that Ramirez and Sam were here without him when everything he’d heard about their relationship had sounded idyllic. _Can I ever live up to that? Can I ever fill shoes as large as those you left?_ He couldn’t help but wonder.

“You coming, Steve?” Ramirez called from the kitchen. “I need to know how much you’re going to want!”

“Yeah. Sorry.” He answered, shaking his head as if trying to shake himself awake, he followed her into the kitchen.

She served dinner, he poured the wine, and they sat down and ate at the kitchen bar in silence, The formal dining room table was currently occupied by the Ofrenda.

She had turned the music back on, but it wasn’t the same thing she’d been listening to, and singing along with before. It was a softer piano edging on smooth jazz. Was she worried about what he would think? Embarrassed? Concerned he wouldn’t or didn’t like it?

“What were we listening to before?” He asked as innocently as he could manage.

“Oh.” She replied shortly. “That was Mariachi music. I can turn it back on. It can just be a little hard to talk over.”

“You were singing.”

Ramirez blushed, “You heard that?”

“It was very good.” He rushed.

“Thanks. I hope I wasn’t too loud. Wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbors.”

“What were you singing?”

“Vamanos.”

“Let’s go?”

“Yeah. That’s right. A love song. Most of them are.” She nodded, taking a sip of her wine. “I used to know a lot of them by heart. Although I was too young at the time to really know or understand what they were about.” She paused, surveying his expression. “They’re love ballads of the less happy variety. Not quite break up songs, but not exactly the most optimistic or happy of songs either.”

“Why’d you know them?”

“Little known fact, but I was in a mariachi group from the time I could hold a guitar until...” She glanced over at the Ofrenda. “Up until the time my brother died.”

“You play guitar?”

“Uhh. Yeah. Used to.” She glanced down to her left hand.

“Oh.”

“My brother, Antonio, was an amazing guitarist. He had a real knack for it. He was the reason I got involved in the first place. He wanted to play in a mariachi group, and I was signed up along with him so my parents only had to drive us one place.”

Antonio, her brother, the boy no more than seventeen on the Ofrenda. Steve wondered what had happened, how the young man had died, but he didn’t have the heart to ask. He cleared his throat, “You have a lovely singing voice.”

She laughed. “You haven’t heard me sing anything other than through the door.”

“Will you?”

“Sing? Perhaps.”

“Come on. I know Bec’s been showing you all of my old drawings.”

“Not as many as you think. You are more than welcome to scour the internet for home videos of me as a young mariachi singer. I know they’re out there. I think my last chance Ranch volunteers posted some of them on the website for part of my funeral services.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“Do you listen to much in the way of Mariachi music?” Ramirez asked.

“No.” Steve shook his head, taking a sip of the wine.

“Know much about Mexican folklore?” She continued.

“Sorry, no.”

Ramirez nodded, taking a bite of a tamale. Her expression was thoughtful as she chewed and then swallowed. “I’m going to go on a tangent here, but I promise it does relate back. First, I’d like to say that my family wasn’t very superstitious, but I was told my fair share of ghost stories as a child, namely the story of La Llorona. The story goes that a woman’s husband abandons her and their two sons. In a fit of anger and grief, she drowns her sons and then kills herself. When she arrived at the gates of heaven, she was denied entry unless she can find the bodies of her sons. Unable to do so she wanders the earth for all eternity, looking for her children, kidnapping children she mistakes as her own and drowning them.” She paused, looking up at him. “Grim. I know. It was something told to little children to keep them from staying out after dark, namely away from water at night. It fascinated me as a kid.”

“Murder-suicide?”

“Ghost Stories. Folk-Lore. Something Riley and I shared, but that Sam absolutely couldn’t stand.” She explained, shaking her head with a chuckle. “It inspired me to learn the song about La Llorona. It’s one of the few that I know by heart still.” Ramirez chewed on her lip before meeting his gaze. “If you want to hear me sing something that eight-year-old Maggie wouldn’t have dreamed of, that would be the one.”

 “I’d be honored.”

Ramirez nodded, setting down the glass of wine and pushed back from the bar. She paused the music playing overhead and cleared her throat. Then, she began to sing.

Goosebumps covered his arms and ran up his spine as her voice spun a haunting melody that echoed around the apartment. Her eyes were closed, and every bit of her seemed to be focused and concentrated on what she was doing. He could see her hands moving as she sang as if she was playing an invisible guitar.

 _Used to._ She’d said. Steve could imagine that working the frets of the guitar, the pressure and dexterity needed would be difficult for her to manage with her left hand in the condition it was in presently.

 The song ended, and she opened her eyes as the last note finally faded away. “And now you need to show me your sketches.” She grinned, before taking another bite of the lonely tamale left on her plate.

"That...That was beautiful.” He managed after a moment.

“Thanks. I’m out of practice, but it’s good to know I’ve still got it.”

“You know you can turn back on what you were listening to before I showed up.” Steve continued. “Since that is how we got off on this tangent.”

“It is, isn’t it. All right, but let me know if and when you want me to change it.” She resumed the music, but at a low level.

“Did you always celebrate Day of the Dead?” Steve asked after a moment.

“It was something my family did growing up, but something that I didn’t really pick up until after my grandfather died, and then it really kicked into gear after Riley was killed.” She explained.

“It’s a beautiful tradition," Steve said his gaze focusing back on the Ofrenda and the splendid array of marigolds and roses, the sweets, and the offerings all lined up in front of row upon row of photographs.

“You really think so?" She looked genuinely surprised and pleased.

Her enthusiasm and excitement took him aback. “Of course.” He nodded.

“I think Sam finds it a bit macabre, but I’ve never had the heart to ask," Ramirez explained quickly.

“What did Riley think?”

“Oh. He was supportive in his quiet way. I know he enjoyed the food aspect of it to be sure. He understood it was important to me, but I don’t think he understood why. Of course, the significance only multiplied tenfold after he died.” She took a sip of her wine, and looked contemplatively down at her plate, humming along with the song that was playing.

“Sam doesn’t talk about him," Steve said after a moment.

“Well, I may be wrong, but talking about your ex-boyfriends doesn’t exactly make the best pillow talk." She said.

“True.” Steve nodded. “Do you guys still talk about him much?”

“No. Not really.” Ramirez shook her head.

 “Oh. I’m sorry. I just...I thought.” He stammered into silence.

“Sam and I don’t talk about much anymore, not since Riley passed.” She smiled, but it was sad, mournful almost. “It’s a strange feeling, yanno? Someone so central and important in your life being relegated to the past tense. It’s almost like he died, while not _actually_ dying. We used to be close. We had plans together.”

Steve didn’t say anything. They were entering dangerous territory. He was dating Sam, but Ramirez was his friend or a friend of sorts. Even beyond the bounds of the mission to find Bucky, they would be interacting regularly. If he didn’t proceed with caution and care, things could end badly and would create more complications in an already complicated situation.

“I know you have a question, Steve," Her voice bridged the silence between them, and he looked up into her earnest expression.

“Huh? No. I don’t. Just thinking.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” She chuckled, taking the bottle of wine and pouring herself a generous glass. “Seriously. Steve. Whatever you want to know. I’m an open book. I think it’s important to have open communication. Particularly in a situation like this where we’re all working and living in close proximity. Sam and I had a wonderful relationship with a man we loved very much. Now that person is gone. That shouldn’t make you uneasy or wary about having a relationship with Sam. He’s a wonderful human being, and you’re lucky to have him. Seriously. Anything you wanna know. I’m happy to put your mind at ease.”

He hesitated. He wanted to know about Riley, but that was unfair to Sam. If Sam wanted to share what Riley had been like, that was up to him, and he shouldn’t ask Ramirez. More pressing was the mystery of what had ruined the friendship between her and Sam. He’d seen the way they interacted. It wasn’t exactly tense, but there was tension between them, and he needed to know why, so he could help defuse it or avoid exacerbating it further. “What happened?” Steve began slowly. “Between the two of you? That caused you two to fall out.”

“Oh," Ramirez said slowly, raising the wine glass to her lips took a thoughtful drink before she set the glass back down and continued. “It wasn’t so much a falling out as parting of ways. He finished with his tour and then had something things to look after with his mom and sisters in D.C. 'Should just be a few weeks Mags,’ he said. Then he found the temp gig down at the VA. 'It’ll just be a few months, just to get my feet under me Mags,’ He’d said. Then he bought a house. And what had been a few weeks became months, which turned into years. I guess it came down to he couldn’t bear the thought of coming back to the ranch, and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving for the same reason.” She shook her head, sniffling. “It hurt. It really hurt. Feeling abandoned by Sam after Riley died. We’d planned a life together, and then it all just went up in smoke.”

“You ever tell him that?”

“No. No. he felt guilty about what had happened. I wasn’t about to add to that. I was the painful reminder of what he’d lost, of what we’d lost. I wasn’t going to force him to sacrifice his well being for me.” She said.

“What about you?”

She frowned thinking a moment. “I dunno. I had the ranch. I had people, depending on me. If Sam needed space, then I was going to help give him that. I’m a big girl, I could bear it on my own. At any rate, it wasn’t the first time and I doubt it’ll be the last.”

“Last to be what?”

“Oh. Left alone.” She paused. “I’m glad you two found one another.” She smiled. “It’s good to see him moving on, and I know that Riley would be glad to see Sam happy again, too.”

Steve would’ve asked, _What about you?_ But he knew the answer. She would smile and say something about being married to her work, or just focusing on her health. Something, anything really to deflect. He knew because he understood. Sam was a good change of pace. A reminder to slow down. A reminder to stop and look around. Sam grounded him, gave him purpose, a sense of direction. For Maggie, losing Riley and then by extension Sam, it must’ve felt like she was lost out in the vast ocean, alone.

They sat in silence a moment, listening to the music as it played over the apartment’s speakers. “If you don’t mind, I may change the music while I clear up dishes.” She announced after a moment.

“I don’t mind, but I’m doing the dishes," Steve said, rising he collected the dinner dishes before she could open her mouth to protest.

“Steven Grant Rogers. I didn’t invite you over so you could do the dishes for me.” She sputtered as she started to rise.

“No. But I was raised to help my host clean up after they provide a meal for me.” He answered as he started rinsing off the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. He couldn’t help but revel in the look of indignation spread across her usually even features.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, but much to Steve’s satisfaction, she sat back down in her seat. "But I don’t have to like it.”

“No one said you had to.” He chuckled. “Besides, from what I read tamales are incredibly time-intensive, as are the Calaveras and the Pan de Muerto.”

Her face lit up with a broad grin. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

“I wanted to know what I was getting myself into.”

Ramirez chuckled. “I didn’t realize you were 'getting’ into anything.”

“It seemed important to you, and I didn’t want to come in blind.” He reasoned.

“All right. Fair.” She said, taking a sip of wine.

“And you were going to change the music.”

“Right.” She said, returning to her phone, “You don’t mind a little country and western do you?”

“I have absolutely no preference.”

“I guess having a seventy-year gap in your pop culture knowledge would do that to you.” She commented as she scrolled through her music selection.

Steve stopped what he was doing and looked over at her. There was no pity in her voice, which was what he usually got from people when they started talking about anything before 2012. There also wasn’t any attempt to educate, which he also appreciated. While he’d received some excellent recommendations from people about what he should check out next, it got a little condescending at times. It had been a simple comment, a statement of fact. He could feel a tension slip from his shoulders, a tension that he hadn’t realized was there, and he returned to rinsing off the dishes.

He was pulled back into the kitchen by Ramirez chuckling to herself.

“What?”

“Oh. It’s been a while since I’ve listened to George Strait. He was one of my mother’s favorites. She used his music to teach my brother and me how to dance.” She explained as the music started in the background.

Steve paused, listening to the sound of guitar and fiddle play. “Huh.”

“What?”

“I think I’ve heard this one before.” He admitted.

“All my Ex’s live in Texas is a classic.” She smiled. “What honky-tonk bars is Sam taking you to?” Her smile broadened and was accompanied by a giggle.

“Natasha, actually.”

“What?!” Her face lit up with both amusement and disbelief.

“Yeah. Undercover mission.”

“Oh, Jeeze. That sounds simultaneously amazing and terrible. Did she teach you to two-step?”

“A bit," Steve admitted. He could feel the tips of his ears starting to burn.

“You can’t be any worse than Sam. I swear that man has two left feet.” Ramirez slid from the barstool and rounded the island to square with him. “Humor me, Steve?”

“Huh?” He switched off the water and turned to her.

“Come on, Steve, let’s go for a spin! Show me your moves, It’s been forever since I’ve danced!” She laughed, extending her hand to him.

“Oh. No. No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He stammered, taking a step back and wiping his wet hands on his shirt front.

Her smile disappeared, and she nodded, scanning him. “I understand.”

Steve opened and closed his mouth. He hadn’t said anything, but his expression must’ve spoken volumes. “It’s not you. I-I I made a promise.” Steve managed.

Ramirez put up both hands, “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

She nodded thoughtfully, returning to the bar, she slid up onto the chair and took a drink of her wine. “Sometimes, the most difficult thing is remembering.”

“What?” He looked over at her. She was looking at the Ofrenda, the warm golden colors of the flowers, and the lights she’d placed around the altar reflected and flickered in the dark, glassy depths of her eyes.

Ramirez chuckled to herself, taking another drink. “I don’t do this because it’s fun. There is an element of joy and celebration to this holiday, but I think after every one that I’ve lost, it’s become something else.” She turned and met his gaze. “My grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when I was in high school and passed away when I was finishing up my master’s degree. Watching him and what the disease did to him made me realize that forgetting is easy. Anyone can forget. You can forget things you desperately want to hold onto. You can forget parts of yourself and lose yourself in the act of forgetting. Remembering, then, is the bravest thing any of us can do. Part of that is doing this. Not just remembering those I’ve lost, but reminding myself of what they left behind, the good, the bad, and everything in between.” She smiled sadly. “How you remember and how you commemorate what you’ve lost is important, but it’s also tremendously personal. So when I say you don’t have to explain anything to me, I mean it, because I do understand.”

Steve didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t wrong, but there was still no way that she could understand, not entirely. How could she know what it was like to lose absolutely everything you ever knew, and then have two of the most important people in your life not remember you? Did she know about Peggy, or was it only coincidence that she’d brought up her grandfather having Alzheimer's? It really didn’t matter, because she wasn’t exactly wrong. Remembering was an act of bravery, but what about survival? Surely she knew about that too.

Ramirez was watching him, waiting for a response, but there wasn’t anything malicious in her expression. “Thank you, Ramirez.” He said simply.

“Any time, Steve.” She replied with a small, demure smile. “You know, you can call me Maggie if you want.” She commented after a pause. “I feel like we’ve crossed that threshold.”

“That’s fair.” He chuckled nodding.

“Now. Dishes are done. We’ve nearly polished off this bottle of wine. Would you like to watch 'The Book of Life?’ I was able to snag a copy for Stark’s screening room. Just came out, I haven’t seen it yet.”

Steve was about to answer when his phone buzzed. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he strangled a sigh before looking up to meet Ramirez’s inquisitive gaze. “I gotta go. Avengers stuff.”

“Hydra?”

“Yeah.”

“Any sign of Barnes?”

“Don’t think so. Just Hydra.”

Ramirez nodded. “It was a pleasure to have you over for dinner, thank you for coming.”

Steve hesitated, looking her over. While still hallowed in the dim apartment light, the vibrant warmth in her features had seeped away, her shoulders looked tense and hunched, the flowers in her hair wilted. “Thank you again, Maggie. For everything. Dinner was wonderful, we’ll have to watch the movie when I get back.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Steve nodded. He wished there was something he could do to ease the sadness in her features. He opened his mouth to say something, but his phone buzzed again.

“Be safe, Steve.” She said, rising up on her tiptoes to hug him

“Have a good evening, Maggie.” He replied as they pulled apart.

 “I’ll walk you to the door.” She said.

He followed her to the door, and they exchanged goodbyes to a chorus of buzzing and ringing from his phone before he finally left. As he walked away, he could hear Maggie turn on music. This time, as she started to sing along it sounded sad, mournful, as he caught only one word, 'Volver,’ or 'return’ in Spanish.

 

***

 

 His whole body throbbed like a gigantic bruise, and he blinked as the ceiling started coming into view. He stifled a moan and squeezed his eyes shut rolling onto his side, his head pounding. He should check the time, it was important to know how long he’d been out. Know how long he’d been vulnerable to Hydra, and the world in general.

The first time it had happened, he’d been afraid. It had happened in a back alley, and he’d awoken a few minutes later surrounded by a circle of well-meaning homeless people. They’d been kind enough, but the whole experience had been frightening enough that he’d taken to listening and waiting for the signs of an oncoming seizure so that he could plan accordingly. Now he was just angry. Angry at his body for betraying him. Angry at Hydra. Angry at the world for the larger truth that the seizures revealed. His body and his mind were still not his own. Not just with the prosthesis Hydra had inset into his chest cavity or the programming they’d shoved into his brain, but now with all of the nasty side effects. The seizures being only one of them. _Your mind and your body are not your own._

He shivered.

Reaching out with the prosthesis, he groped blindly until the hand came into contact with the fleece blanket laying a few feet away on the floor. The fabric caught and snagged on plates and joints, sending a buzzing sensation up into the base of his neck, but he’d rather that comparatively minor discomfort to being cold. He hated being cold almost as much as he hated how disoriented he felt coming out of a seizure. The combination of the two was nearly unbearable. It was too close and familiar for comfort.

Clutching the blanket to him, he took stock. His head was pounding, and his body ached, but that was normal. There were no broken bones, no cracked ribs or teeth. He hadn’t bit his tongue or the inside of his mouth. Mostly he was just exhausted, but he was no stranger to that either. He hadn’t slept solidly since Kiev. That had been too close. He’d had to fight his way out of there, and had killed probably half a dozen Hydra agents. _If they’d leave me alone, they wouldn’t have to worry about me snapping their necks._ He couldn’t help but think bitterly.

That wasn’t entirely true. He’d still be trying to track down those Hydra agents involved in the Winter Soldier and the Red Room Programs, for answers, if nothing else.

He was exhausted, everything hurt, but he didn’t have time to sleep, didn’t have time to let his aching muscle rest. He had to keep moving. He couldn’t let this little set back make him vulnerable to whatever was going to happen next. He opened his eyes and pushed himself into an upright position. His right hand brushed the journal that had slipped from his bag as he’d started losing consciousness.

Pulling it onto his lap, he flipped absently through the pages, as the events of the afternoon started slowly returning to him. He’d been making lunch. Then something had triggered a memory. A relatively pleasant memory, something that the woman had made him, the smell had come back to him. He’d done his best to ignore those memories. He’d avoided doing research on her. It was still so new, so fresh. But the memory of the green chili stew had been too strong. He’d stopped everything he’d been doing, and immediately gone to the library to do as much research as he could stomach.

The Last Chance Ranch website had been useful. As he’d reasoned, the volunteers, or those who remained, had been doing the upkeep on the website since Ramirez’s death. While crude, the website had been updated for Dia De Muertos with a 'virtual Ofrenda.’ It had the photos and information of all of the clients and volunteers who had died, including Tim and Alice, but that paled in comparison to the pages that had been constructed for Riley Underdhal and Magdalene Ramirez. The page for Ramirez had featured over a hundred photos, from childhood all the way to the last cookout she’d hosted. There had been home videos, again ranging from childhood when she’d apparently been in a Mariachi group, through adulthood. It had a detailed biography and did it’s best to flesh out the person Ramirez had been, but it didn’t answer his most pressing question. What sort of person would protect him, even after she found who he was? Sure, it was apparent she’d been a caring and generous soul, with a soft spot for broken things, but that didn’t answer how that pertained to him, and why she’d been willing to sacrifice it all for someone as wholly unworthy as himself.

He’d continued searching, looking into all the open records he could access. Until he’d come across a photo. A family photo. Ramirez’s family, brother, mother, father, and her as a small toddler. They’d all been smiling demurely, except the toddler, who looked like she was giggling. It looked like a happy, almost perfect family. Then, like someone had flipped a switch, he was back, not on Last Chance, but back inside the head of the Winter Soldier. Watching like a third party spectator, a pain groaning at his temples, auras dancing in-front of his eyes.

Somehow he’d made it home, he couldn’t quite recall how. But he could see them. How could he have forgotten? It was recent in comparison to the other things he’d done. He’d been in Mexico, aiding the cartels. Assassinating politicians who were a threat to Hydra’s operations near the border. Fuentes had been one of them.

He could hear them screaming. Fuentes had been shot in the neck, giving the mans’ wife and two sons a chance to scream for help. The target had been Fuentes, Fuentes only. The wife and children weren’t supposed to be there. He’d been told his target would be alone. Everything had gone according to plan, but then he’d seen her, trying to get her sons to safety.

_No witnesses._

That’s what he’d been told. It was imperative to the success of the mission objective that there were no witnesses. It was supposed to look like a cartel hit. So he’d killed them. His handlers had praised him. He’d remained silent. He’d done his job. They were collateral damage, in the wrong place at the wrong time, it had been the only way to achieve his mission objective, and it was better to obey than to question. Better to obey than defy.

 What exactly had triggered this latest seizure, he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that he could hear them. All of them. They were sharper now than they had been in the past months, more defined. He could pick out atrocity from atrocity, assassination from assassination, mission from mission rather than seeing them as a collective mass of memory. He could see the faces of those he’d killed. Their expressions moments before he pulled the trigger, see them frozen in the seconds before he ended their lives.

He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaking breath, tears streaking his face and dripping from his chin. He ran his fingers over the filled pages of his journal, a testament to everything he’d remembered, everything he’d learned about who and what he was, and of what he had been. It was of little comfort, but it was still a comfort of sorts. The knowing. Knowing and remembering would enable him to survive. Plus, having all that he knew, all that he remembered, on paper meant that if he forgot, the information wouldn’t be lost forever.

He didn’t want to remember. At first, when he’d first gone on the run, he’d wanted to remember everything, down to the last detail. He’d reasoned it was the only way he could escape Hydra permanently, but now, over six months on, he wasn’t so sure anymore. It wasn’t like he had a choice, the memories came unbidden, and without warning, much like the seizures. Perhaps someday the memories wouldn’t come back quite as frequently, or as violently as they did. Eventually, he might not have seizures anymore. He didn’t know, but in the meantime, he’d have to figure out how best to mitigate the worst of it, and prepare for the unknown.

After a moment, he wiped his face with his hand and looked down at the journal. Picking up the pen from the floor, he continued writing. He would move in the morning, for now, he would write everything he could remember. This was too important to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed! Once again, thank you for your patience between chapters and I hope that the wait was worth it! I’d love to hear what you thought.
> 
> Please do note, I do hear and consider your comments when creating content. Thank you to all who have commented!
> 
> Also, as an aside I'd like to ask. Would you all like me to create a Spotify Playlist with all of the recommended listening songs in one place? I can do that if there is an interest. Also, is anyone actually listening to the recommended listening? Again, I’d be interested in hearing what you think on that matter. Otherwise, Happy Reading!


	7. A Non-Birthday Birthday Celebration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance' and is Part II of IV of my "Find Your Way Home" Series. So if you're confused, that's why.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Princess Leia's Theme by John Williams, Vienna by Billy Joel, Walk on Life by Dire Straits, Happy Happy Birthday Baby by The Fleetwoods, I'm Always Chasing Rainbows by Judy Garland, and Shut up and Drive by Rihanna
> 
> For those interested in the ongoing playlist:   
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1253302637/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6?si=vfzlA-gxQcqB_pquf4abnQ

 It had been quiet since September. They hadn’t heard anything out of Barnes since Kiev, and Sam had been working solo while Natasha and Steve and the rest of the Avengers took on Hydra, cell by cell to try to weed out the terrorist organization and hopefully find new leads on Barnes.

Meanwhile, Maggie had been working on her coding, encryption, and Russian. She’d also been working on her physical therapy. It was slow going and painful, though not nearly as much as the search for Barnes.

She still hadn’t crossed the point of no return. The files had remained sealed and locked in her bottom drawer. She wanted to ask Becca what she would do, what Maggie should do, but she hadn’t had the nerve nor the opportunity to ask. Becca would probably think she was a coward, and anyway they hadn’t seen much of one another. The onset of cold weather hadn’t been kind to Becca who’d been dealing with colds and other respiratory problems. But Becca had been spending more time with her children and grandchildren, so Maggie couldn’t entirely begrudge her time with her family.

Maggie glowered as she paced the length of the apartment, the floor to ceiling windows, giving her a spectacular view of uptown. She squeezed the Captain America stress dummy Sam had gifted her as hard as she could with her left hand in time with each step. It hurt, but the pain was cathartic, it meant the nerves were healing, but she was reasonably sure that the doctors didn’t mean like this. She wasn’t supposed to tire herself out, push herself too hard. Yet she worked the hand until she could feel the tension and pain stinging in her neck and jaw.

Wincing she shook her head.

She should’ve gone with Steve and Sam to D.C. for Veteran’s Day. Sam was going to lay a wreath, as he always did. He didn’t lay one at memorial day, he just didn’t have the heart. Maggie would argue because Riley was still with them, in their hearts and minds, but Sam would never admit that. So Sam was gone, spending time with Riley on Veteran’s day, leaving her alone on her birthday. One of the many reasons she didn’t like and didn’t want to celebrate her birthday.

Maggie paused, glancing out the window to the city below. It was cloudy outside, but it wasn’t snowing, sleeting, or even rainy. It wasn’t the proper weather for the season or her mood.

_We’d be having campfires regularly._

Maggie sighed, feeling more upset and angry at herself for allowing the thought to even pass her mind. She’d deleted the weather and news alerts for the Last Chance Ranch area and volunteers, mostly because Sam had seen it on her computer and she hadn’t wanted to explain. Unfortunately, he was right, it wasn’t healthy or productive, and she needed to ween herself off checking on what was going on in her old life.

Maggie dropped the stress doll, swearing and muttering under her breath, she flexed her left hand stooping down to collect the little plastic Captain America. She stopped at the sound of someone knocking politely at the door.

“Come in. It’s unlocked.” She called standing upright.

There was a hesitant pause before the door opened, and Natasha Romanoff entered. “You really shouldn’t do that.”

“Come to lecture me, Agent Romanoff?” Maggie smiled, turning to face the approaching woman.

“Would you actually listen if I did?” Romanoff asked, arching a playful eyebrow.

“I am an excellent student.” She shot back in mock hurt.

“Which is why you’re still leaving your front door unlocked.”

“True, true. But would you, Hydra, or anyone else I know with lethal capacity be deterred by a locked door?” Maggie asked with an exaggerated drawl.

Romanoff rolled her eyes, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You make a compelling point.”

“But I take it that’s not why you’re here.”

“I brought you some intel and a gift.”

“Gift?” Maggie narrowed her gaze, her expression hardening in a grimace.

“You’ve burned through the other coding books I gave you. So I found some in Russian for you to work on your reading.” Romanoff removed both the file and the thick volume and extended it to her.

“Thanks. “Maggie said, stuffing the Cap’ stress doll into the pocket of her cardigan and taking the file and book from her. “I’m just going to put them in the office if you wanna follow me over.”

“Lead the way.” Romanoff nodded, following behind as Maggie made her way to the office. “So you have anything planned for the day?” She asked cryptically.

“Who told you?" Maggie groaned, placing her newest acquisitions on top of the mounting stack of paperwork and books piling up on her desk. “And don’t lie to me.” She added, turning back to face Romanoff who was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

“Death certificates are open record.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, “You can just say Sam and drop all the vague spy international mystery woman nonsense.”

“He didn’t say anything specific, just asked me to check on you today.”

“I’m sure.” She replied dryly.

“So do you have any plans for today?”

 “I'm having dinner with Becca this evening. I haven’t seen her in almost a month. Otherwise, I was just going to hang around here for the rest of the day.”

“So you’ll have time to go to the gun range and the driving course," Romanoff said a matter of factly. “Go get dressed, I’ll meet you in the shooting gallery in twenty minutes.”

Maggie opened her mouth to protest, but Romanoff interjected before she could get anything out. “If you’re going to hang around superheroes, assassins, and spies, you need to know how to shoot and drive.”

“At the same time?

“Possibly, but not today.”

Maggie sighed. “All right. Fine. You make a compelling argument, but this is strictly training, and I need to get back in time to shower and change.”

“Of course.” Romanoff nodded. “Shooting gallery, twenty minutes just ask Jarvis for my floor. Wear comfortable shoes.”

Romanoff left before Maggie could come up with a reasonable excuse for why this was a bad idea. As the door shut and locked behind Romanoff, Maggie exhaled a long strangled sigh. “Fine. Fine. Fine!” She muttered as she put away the new intel and secured the more sensitive information lying around before walking back to her bedroom to change.

“Stupid Sam, I hate my birthday, why did he have to say anything?” She grumbled as she pulled clothes from the dresser and closet.

Yet despite herself, Maggie found that she was both excited and nervous for the day ahead of her. She and Romanoff had been working together since she’d very nearly been intercepted by Hydra back in August, but they hadn’t 'hung out’ professionally or even socially. They had a strictly 'off the book’ professional relationship. She hadn’t told Sam or Steve what exactly she and Romanoff were up to, and she had the suspicion that Romanoff wasn’t the most forthcoming either. Romanoff came and went with little to no warning and was gone just as quickly. Maggie didn't mind, much of her life since last chance had been devoid of structure and consistency, and Sam and Steve frequently dropped in without much warning and often had to leave mid-way through whatever they were doing. Yet, with Romanoff, it was different. Steve, for his part, was an open book, his emotions and thoughts on his face even if he didn’t verbally say anything. By comparison, Romanoff was like a book that was encased in three feet of concrete, locked in a safe that had been dropped into the Marianas trench or launched into space. It made it difficult to get a read on the exact nature of their relationship professional or otherwise. Now Romanoff was spending her free time with her, taking her out to a driving course, on her birthday none the less.

“Fuck!” Maggie swore as the closure on her skinny jeans slipped again. She flexed her left hand before attempting again. She _really_ hadn’t done herself any favors.

Finally getting the jeans buttoned, she slipped on flats and pulled an already buttoned plaid flannel button-down over her head, thankful that neither required fiddling with closures, and that the sleeves of the flannel had already been cuffed and didn’t need further adjustment. She pulled her hair back into a bun using the one-handed technique she’d learned while her hand was in a cast, and surveyed herself in the mirror.

“You look like shit.” Maggie grimaced. “Well onward and upward.” She added bleakly before she headed up to the shooting gallery.

When she arrived, Romanoff was waiting for her, an array of guns from a small handgun to large semiautomatic and automatic weapons laid out and ready to go. “No moss grows on that rolling stone, huh?” Maggie commented, dropping her bag on the bench against the back wall of the gallery, before approaching Romanoff and the arsenal.

“Have you handled guns before?”

Maggie raised an eyebrow, “I grew up in Texas. I’ve handled and am comfortable with a fair number of firearms.”

“Have you ever shot anyone?”

There was a beat of silence as her question filled the room. “What?” Maggie blinked, unsure if she’d heard her correctly.

“Have you ever shot someone?”

“No. I have fantasized about it a fair bit.” Maggie tried to laugh, but it was all bravado. She’d been around guns all her life. She was from Texas after all and had worked on a ranch for most of her life as well. Firearms were a tool and a fact of life in the same way that a nail, hammer, and file were. What Romanoff was asking was had she used the gun as a weapon, which no, she hadn’t, and the thought made her stomach twist. It was strange really, she’d been around military personnel all her life and had been inundated with that culture yet had never thought of herself within the context of being the one who wielded the gun to kill people. She was the one who talked people back from those experiences

“I hope that you never find yourself in that situation, but if you do, you need to know how to use your weapon and be prepared to kill, because whoever it is trying to kill you will likely have more training and won’t hesitate,” Romanoff said gravely.

She wasn’t trying to scare her, Maggie knew better than. Romanoff was being honest, which was perhaps even worse.

“So.” Romanoff continued, “Wherever you’d like to start, let's get you comfortable.”

“Start small and work out way up.”

Natasha nodded wordlessly and they began. Proceeding through each gun, Natasha explaining the pros and cons of all the weapons, working up from a Glock 26 to the M60. 'We have bigger guns if you’d like. But you shouldn't need to be comfortable with those’ Romanoff had commented when Maggie had gotten all giggly with the larger weapons.

There was an undeniable adrenaline rush that came from firing guns that Maggie tried to quash, particularly with Romanoff standing behind her. This was serious, and could potentially save her life one day. Yet still, she giggled and reveled in the rush that came with the whole experience.

“Not a bad cluster," Romanoff commented as Maggie brought the paper target back to where they were standing.

Maggie had moved away from the rifles and higher caliber weapons and was now getting familiar with a SIG-Sauer P226 and a Glock 19.

“You’ll need to keep practicing to tighten it up, but not a bad start.” She said, surveying the target. “You’re welcome to come down while Clint and I are practicing. We do that every morning around five before the morning brief.”

 “I-I-” Maggie faltered before clearing her throat. “I’d like that, thank you.”

 “It’s approaching noon, time for lunch before we head over to the driving course," Romanoff commented, as she started collecting up the mini arsenal.

 “But. I. I mean.” Maggie stammered.

"You’ll want to eat before we go driving. Driving on a full stomach is important for focus," She said.            

They returned the guns to the locker, although Maggie protested that she should clean them first, and they headed down to the garage.

Walking past the flashy hotrods, Romanoff stopped at the little black Honda Civic. Maggie frowned. “Yes. Really.” Romanoff commented, answering Maggie’s unasked question. “Get in. Traffic is going to be terrible.”

 Maggie felt like a fish out of water, opening and closing her mouth as she climbed into the passenger’s seat, feeling off-balance, uncertain of what was going to happen next. “So where are we going?” She asked as they pulled from the garage.

“Have you ever had Ethiopian food?”

“No.”

 “There’s a place in Hell’s Kitchen I’ve been meaning to try.”

“I’m up for an adventure.” Maggie shrugged.

“Glad to hear it.”

They arrived at the restaurant and were immediately seated and served by the owners who chatted excitedly with Natasha in Arabic, Maggie felt slightly lightheaded.

“Do you know them?” She asked as they started eating.

“Yeah, I helped me out a while ago.” Romanoff supplied obliquely.

 _Helped them out?_ Maggie had questions, lots of questions but knew that she was unlikely to receive anything more substantial than that. She was still perplexed and confused and uncertain when it came to Romanoff, namely why? Why was she doing this? Any of it. Helping her, but also helping in the search for Barnes. There were too many things that didn’t add up, but this was neither the time nor the place to think about that. Romanoff, in her way, Maggie supposed, was trying to be friends. While Maggie had more than her fair share of misgiving about the situation knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it did mean she was sorta kinda celebrating her birthday.

“So why an equine therapy ranch?”

“Pardon?” Maggie blinked, looking up to meet Romanoff’s gaze.

“Just wondering why equine therapy.”

“Oh.” The question surprised her. “Well.” Maggie began slowly. “A bit of personal experience combined with intersecting professional interests.”

Romanoff nodded.

“Have you spent any time around horses, Romanoff?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Well, when this all blows over, and I get to have a life again, I’ll have to show you the ropes.”

Maggie said wincing as she did, waiting for Romanoff to chastise her for still thinking she could go back to the ranch.

“I look forward to the opportunity.” She paused, as a thoughtful expression passed over her features, but before she could say anything, the server came over to check on them.

They passed lunch in the polite conversation akin to workaholics on a first date, and when they finished, Romanoff left a roll of twenties tucked discretely under one of the plates. “Won’t take it, otherwise.” She said, spying Maggie’s inquisitive look “Come on. We need to get to the driving course.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Romanoff, please.”

“My treat.”

Maggie sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’ll have to get you back, you know.”

“Doubt it.”

Maggie opened and closed her mouth, trying to come up with a comeback, but in the end, just sunk back into the seat, arms crossed. “You know that’s not fair. Right, Romanoff?”

“I never said I’d play fair, and you can call me Natasha. We’ve crossed that threshold I think.”

“Fine. Natasha. I’m going to get you back. And there’s no way you can stop me.”

“Good Luck with that.”

There was no possible come back Maggie could come up with that would be sufficient, and so they rode the rest of the way to the driving course in silence. When they arrived, Natasha drove the course a couple times, explaining the different maneuvers without pause before making Maggie get into the driver's seat to traverse the course herself.

Maggie surprised herself by how quickly she was able to pick the different driving maneuvers. Then, once Maggie had mastered a less challenging course in reverse, Natasha brought out a Ferrari, and they spent the last hour and a half of their track time doing laps, drifts, and doughnuts.

“You okay?” Natasha asked, glancing over from the driver’s seat at Maggie, who was laughing breathlessly, clutching her side.

“I’m-fine-why-would-you-ask?” She managed between gasps for air.

“No reason.” Natasha shook her head with a small chuckle. “Come on. We have to get you to Brooklyn, wouldn’t want to keep Mrs. Proctor waiting.”

“Shit," Maggie swore, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” She scrabbled from the Ferrari and started back toward the little black Honda.

“Relax. I prepared for this eventuality.” Natasha commented. “I’ll drop you off and make sure your security people know where you’re at.”

Maggie leveled her gaze on the other woman. “You’re acting really nice. Why?”

“Aren’t I allowed? To be nice?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. “Now come on, or else we’re going to be late.”

“I mean, you don’t have to be nice to me. Just because I’m Sam’s friend and I’m helping Steve.” Maggie continued as they returned to the road and toward Brooklyn.

 “Is it so impossible to think that perhaps people enjoy your company?”

“Do you?”

“It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

Maggie snorted. “Well, whatever the case, thank you for taking me out today. Both lunch and the tactical practice shooting and driving. It’s been a while since I’ve shot firearms of any kind, and I’ve never driven a course like that, so thank you for being gentle with me.” Maggie replied.

“Of course.” Natasha nodded. “Any time you want to brush up on driving or shooting, just let me know, and if I’m not available, I know some people who’d be more than willing to assist.”

They drifted off into silence and arrived promptly at 6:00 pm to Becca’s front door. Natasha got out and retrieved a duffle from her trunk, before escorting Maggie to the front door.

Becca greeted them at the door. “Hello, Ms. Romanoff, lovely to see you again.”

“Hello Mrs. Proctor, good to see you as well.” Natasha nodded.

"Will you be joining us for dinner?”

“Afraid I can’t stay, just here to drop off Ms. Ramirez," Natasha said before switching into Yiddish.

Becca replied likewise in a rapid burst of Yiddish. Maggie glanced between them, feeling, once again, slightly lightheaded at what was occurring. The duo chatted back and forth a moment before Natasha cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you two to it, have a good evening," Natasha said, extending a duffle bag to her. “In case you wanted to change for your evening in. Call if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Natasha.” Maggie stammered as she took the duffle. “For everything.”

“Any time.” Natasha nodded with a small smile.

Becca and Maggie watched as Natasha returned to the car before Becca spoke. “Did you two have fun today, dear?” She asked, escorting her into the apartment.

“Yeah, of a sort," Maggie replied, shutting and locking the front door behind her. She paused. “How do you and Natasha know each other?”

“Oh. She’s a lovely girl. She came by shortly after D.C. back in April. Wanted to know if I’d seen James and to make sure I was safe. As far as I’m aware she’s personally overseeing my security detail. Doesn’t talk much, but she has a good heart.” Becca paused, turning to her. “Now. Why don’t you go shower and change while I order us some food.”

 “Sounds like a plan.” Maggie agreed, veering off to the small guest bathroom.

Stripping down and jumping in the shower, Maggie let the hot water stream over her face, through her hair and down her back, providing a brief respite to contemplate everything that had happened. First and foremost being that Natasha and Becca knew one another, apparently. Why hadn’t Natasha told her? Why hadn’t Steve said anything? Why hadn’t Becca brought it up before? The wheels in her head continued to turn, and she tried to work through the question that had continued to haunt her. Why was Natasha doing any of this? What was the motivation? Now, Natasha’s brief interaction with Becca had only complicated everything that Maggie thought she knew. The answer felt so simple, yet was just out of her reach.

Maggie sighed, letting the warm water soak into her aching muscles. This certainly wasn’t how she’d expected she’d be spending her birthday, but it had been a pleasant one thus far, and she hoped that it would continue through the evening. When inevitably the water ran cold, she climbed out and dried off.

Wrapped in a towel, Maggie opened the duffle and started removing the items that Natasha had included inside. Basic toiletries, toothbrush, comb, toothpaste, lotion, tiny shampoo, and body soap. Then Maggie removed a pair of leggings, a knit shirt, chunky cable knit cardigan and equally chunky pair of socks. Tucked further inside the duffle was a sensible pair of skinny jeans, ankle boots, shirt, and scarf. At the very bottom of the duffle was a note. 'Always smart to have a go-bag packed and ready. Let me know if something doesn’t fit. -Nat.’

Maggie put the note down and exhaled slowly, a wave of emotions overcame her, both overwhelmed by Natasha’s kindness and angry that she was surprised and that it was affecting her this way. She didn’t celebrate her birthday, she hadn’t in a long time. It was too painful. It was also one of several reasons she’d started the monthly birthday cookouts. She'd wanted to focus on celebrating other birthdays, other people’s ability to survive another revolution around the sun. It also alleviated the question of 'what are you doing for your birthday?’  She hated spectacle and being the center of attention, she hated the expectation that she was supposed to be _happy_ when more often than not she had more than her fair share of reason to be less than jovial.

 So this…this was different. Maggie wiped at the tears that had started to stream down her face. She’d been grateful that Sam and Steve hadn’t forced the issue of her going with them to D.C. Sam inevitably would’ve dragged her out for dinner, and it would’ve become a whole big ordeal, even if he hadn’t intended it to be that, it would’ve become that. With Natasha today, well, it had been about as low key as one would imagine spending the day with a super-spy could be. Maggie would even venture to say it had been fun. Now, Natasha has given her a wonderful gift, the proper clothes for an evening in, without fanfare. It was a simple sort of kindness, and it was touching in a way that Maggie had not expected.

Maggie paused at the sound of knocking at the door, and the muffled exchange between Becca and the delivery man. Dressing in the leggings, knit-t and chunky sweater and socks, Maggie emerged out into the living room, hair wrapped in a towel. “So, what’s the verdict?”

“Pizza," Becca answered. “And I took the liberty of pouring you some wine.” She added, motioning to the coffee table, which had the pizza box and glass of wine sitting on it.

“Thank you,” Maggie sighed, sinking down onto the couch beside Becca who was already nibbling on a slice of pepperoni, black olive, and pineapple pizza. “So what’s the plan? She continued as she grabbed a slice of pizza and picked up her glass of wine. “What are we going to talk about tonight?”

“Aren’t you tired of listening to me talk yet?” Becca chuckled.

“Never.” Maggie paused, surveying the other woman. Becca looked tired and frail, practically fragile. It was startling in comparison to Becca’s ordinarily bright and vivacious attitude. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh. Yes. Just tired. Old.” She smiled wearily. “I hope you haven’t been too lonely without our little luncheons.”

“Well, I have to say no one compares with your company.” Maggie tried to smile, but again, something felt wrong. “If you’re not up for company, I can call Natasha or Fabian to come to pick me up," Maggie said quickly.

“No, no. I’ve been looking forward to this. I have missed our little chats.” Becca said. “Just a little surprised you wanted to have dinner with me on your birthday.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Who told you it was my birthday?”

“Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me. Steve did. And I was expressly told that no _ordeal_ was to be made of it.”

“I see he is learning.”

 “Oh we never made a big deal over birthdays back when we were growing up, so he can certainly respect and understand your desire to not celebrate.”

"Oh.” Maggie felt the tension slip from her shoulders.

“But I have been told that you’re going to stay overnight and we’ll have brunch in the morning.”

Maggie moaned, falling back into the couch cushions. Her wine sloshing wildly in the glass.

“Don’t be so dramatic, and don’t you spill wine on my couch, Magdalene Ramirez.” Becca scolded gently.

Maggie grumbled, taking a long draw of her wine.

“They do worry about you. We all do, you know.” Becca said after a pause.

“I know.” Maggie sighed, taking a large bite of pizza. “But seriously, I haven’t celebrated my birthday in years, and I’m not about to start now.”

“I understand," Becca said firmly. “But brunch tomorrow isn’t for your birthday. It’s just a group of friends breaking bread together.”

“Fine.” Maggie relented, as a sudden wave of exhaustion came over her. She shook her head, trying to shake herself out of the funk she’d suddenly found herself in.

“You all right?”

“Would you be?” Maggie replied.

“Point taken," Becca said, cracking a small smile. “Why don’t we put on a movie. I don’t think either of us is in a particularly chatty mood this evening.”

“Sounds perfect.”

They rose, adjusting the seating accordingly, and went through the laborious process of selecting a movie. Since they didn’t really want to watch anything recent, they settled for the original Star Wars trilogy and ate in silence.

The evening passed in mutual silence, and as Maggie polished off the pizza and bottle of wine, sunk down onto the couch, before eventually putting her head in Becca’s lap. “Is this okay?” She murmured weakly.

“Of course it is, dear," Becca said, as she gently stroked her hair.

Maggie swallowed hard as sudden tears lingered near the surface. There was no need for that, yet they persisted, and she did everything she could to hold them out. She should be proud of herself. She’d made it through the day, made it through the day without sobbing, and without anyone wishing her happy birthday. If she was honest, growing up and through her twenties, she’d never thought she’d make it to thirty, and now over six months after she’d nearly died at the hands of Hydra Nazis, she felt just as lucky to have made it to thirty-one. Yet, despite all of that, could this really be considered living? Or was she the walking dead, laughing and smiling and doing her best to convince herself and the world that she was okay? Tears were warranted, but not necessarily appropriate in the given circumstances.

Wordlessly, Becca started running her fingers through Maggie’s hair and over her scalp, and she could feel the tension slip from her body and her defensive barriers come down. It was like Becca, without anything at all, was telling her that it was okay, that she wasn’t alone. Maggie leaned into the other woman’s gentle caress. When was the last time she’d been touched in such a gentle and intimate way by someone like this? She couldn’t help but wonder. It had been a while. Long enough that she couldn’t remember the last time. She exhaled a long The movie played softly in the background, and Maggie drifted away on a soft white gossamer cloud of wine, pizza, and the gentle touch of someone who cared about her.

           

_Maggie found herself on a green, grassy lawn flat on her back, basking in the warm glow of the sun. She felt safe, warm, and content, without a care in the world._

_“_ _You know doll. You shouldn’t fall asleep out here alone like this.”_

 _She opened her eyes to see James Barnes standing over her. The sun was at his back, and she couldn_ _’t see his expression, but she could tell there was a broad grin on his face._

 _“_ _James Barnes. Do you have a habit of sneaking up on sleeping women? Or am I just particularly special?” She laughed, pushing herself into an upright position. “Besides it’s a beautiful day why shouldn’t I lay out here in the park in the sun.”_

_"There are all sorts of weirdos around.” He said, extending a hand to her. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”_

_She accepted his hand, he helped her to her feet and took her by the arm as they started walking through the park._ _“Where you dreaming?” He asked gently, the cool breeze mussing his warm chestnut hair._

 _“_ _What do you think I should dream about Mr. Barnes?” She asked, glancing up him._

 _“_ _Mr. Barnes?” He shook his head, face scrunched with an expression of distaste. “That’s my father.”_

 _“_ _All right. So what should I call you? Bucky? James? Jim? Jimmy?” She laughed, wrinkling her nose at the last suggestion. “And anyway, I can honestly say that I wasn’t actually asleep. I was day dreaming. And anyway Mr. Barnes,_ _how’d you know where I’d be?”_

_"Well, you know how Bec gets.”_

_"She and Steve are the worst gossips.” She rolled her eyes._

_“It’s a compliment._ _They like you, you know. They both do.”_

 _“_ _Then I’ve managed to trick them both, have I?”_

 _“Now_ _I hardly think that’s fair.” He replied. “You’re charming and beautiful and funny-.”_

 _“_ _And it appears that somehow I’ve managed to trick you too, James Barnes.” She interrupted with a laugh._

 _“_ _Well, I wouldn’t say trick per-say.” He chuckled, patting her arm with his hand. “So what sort of misadventures are we going to have today? Coney Island? The Movies? They’re playin’ Snow White. We could get an egg cream, go dancing, whatever you want. It is your birthday, after all.”_

 _"_ _And who on earth told you it was my birthday?”_

 _“_ _I have my sources.”_

 _“Well,_ _what if I were to tell you that I was happy laying in the grass on my back and sun myself, before I was woken up by a strange man who wants to celebrate my birthday.”_

 _“_ _Then I would say, let me buy you a snow cone, and then I’ll return you to your preferred state.” He said, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. “No birthday celebration. Promise.”_

 _Soon enough, they were sitting in the grass occupied with the sugary frozen treat. She_ _’d gotten red, and he’d gotten blue, and they both munched contentedly in silence._

 _“_ _Your snow cone matches your lipstick.” He commented after a moment._

_"So it does. How convenient.”_

_“_ _How do I look?_

 _“_ _Very blue.” Maggie laughed._

 _“_ _Perfect!” He paused a moment before he proceeded cautiously. “Tell me something, doll. Why are you out here, alone, on your birthday?”_

 _“_ _Never been one for parties.” She admitted before taking another bite of her snow cone._

 _“_ _Now, we both know that’s not true. He turned to look at her, his expression earnest._

 _Maggie rolled her eyes,_ _“And you’re just the expert, aren’t you?”_

_"Com’ on. You can be honest with me, I’m not a gossip like Steve and Bec.”_

_“_ _Fine.” She huffed, in a feeble attempt to blow an errant strand of hair out of her face. “I don’t like celebrating my birthday. I dunno, There’s an expectation that you’re supposed to be happy, and for a lot of my life...well, let’s just say that I didn’t expect to get this far. I don’t like keeping score, and that’s all birthdays are. I’ve just found it’s easier to avoid dealing with other’s expectations on how you’re supposed to be feeling than confront them about it.” She shook her head, “That’s stupid, isn’t it? I’m stupid.”_

 _"_ _I don’t think so. That feeling of being crushed under the weight of everyone else’s expectations of you while you just smile and pretend it’s all fine.” He replied a note of seriousness in his voice that hadn’t been there before._

 _“_ _You wanna talk about it?” Maggie asked, uncertainly._

 _“_ _Nothin’ to talk about, just observations.” He said, shaking his head, finished off his snow cone and set the paper down in the grass._

_"You know they love and admire you, no matter what, right?” She commented haltingly as she tried to feel her way through what could potentially be a mine field._

_“_ _Yeah.” He combing his hands through his hair. "What if I’m not the person he thinks I am? What if I can’t be” He flopped back. “What if I’m a completely different person, now?”_

 _She didn_ _’t know how to answer and just took another bite of her snow cone. The syrup was too sweet and sticky, the ice had already started to melt, and the red syrup was running down her hand and dripping off her elbow onto her yellow dress. She felt slightly dizzy, something in her stomach telling her that this was all wrong. She set the snow cone aside, her hands stained red from the syrup._

 _"_ _You know you have to find me, doll.”_

 _Maggie glanced over at Bucky, his eyes were closed._ _“What?” She stammered._

 _"_ _Well, you don’t want to disappoint Steve, do you?” He adjusted, reaching out blindly grabbed her arm and pulled her down into the grass._

_"Find you?” She asked as she lay beside him, “But you’re right here.”_

_“_ _No. I’m not. You have to find me.” He said emphatically._

_"What if I can’t? What if you don’t let me?”_

_"You don’t have a choice. Steve and Becca are counting on you.”_

_"_ _Then you have to let us find you.”_

 _“_ _Wake up.”_

 _“_ _What?”_

_"Wake up!”_

She jolted awake, sitting bolt upright, momentarily disoriented as she tried to figure out where she was. Focusing on her surroundings, she met the stern gazes of the Barnes family portrait from across the room. Winifred, George, James, Abigail, Rachel, and Rebecca Barnes all stared at her with their firm, unrelenting expressions.

 _Right I stayed the night over._ She exhaled, dropping back into the couch. Maggie chuckled to herself, basking momentarily in the last of the lingering sensations of laying out, sunning in the warm grass. _With James Barnes._ She tried to ignore that bit.

Maggie paused at the sound of voices coming from the kitchen. It was Becca and Steve, talking in low, hushed, edging on urgent tones. Pulling the blanket back over her, she closed her eyes, focusing on the voices, but they were too hushed for her to be able to tell what they were actually saying.

Turning, she cracked one eye open to see that someone had left a glass of water out for her. Reaching out for the glass of water, Maggie misjudged and knocked it over.

“Shit.” She snatched up the glass, its contents already spreading across the table.

The door opened, and Steve rushed out, followed by Becca, concerned etched in their features.

Turing on the living room light, their expressions softened when they saw what had happened. “Go grab a towel, Steven," Becca instructed firmly. “And the Brita.”

Steve nodded obligingly and went to the kitchen. Becca walked out and sat down on the couch beside her, helping pick the miscellaneous papers, magazines, and knick-nacks on the coffee table out of the water. Then there was a knock on the door.

“That’ll be Sam," Steve said, quickly darting to the door.

“What did you do now, Mags?” Sam laughed as he emerged into the living room behind Steve.

 “Nothing," Maggie said flatly.

 “You must be the Samuel Wilson I’ve heard so much about.” Becca rose, extending her hand to Sam.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mrs. Proctor. Mags and Steve say nothing but wonderful things.” Sam said, taking Becca’s hand. “Thank you for looking after her while we were away.”

 “It’s a pleasure to meet you San. And of course, She’s a pleasure to have around," Becca replied.

Maggie rolled her eyes, but a grin had already spread over her face. “You two can stop it now.”

“Well, it’s true.” Steve cut in, pouring her another glass of water, which Maggie took from him and drank.

“Well take a seat, Steven and I were just discussing brunch.” Becca said, before turning back to Steve, “Back into the kitchen with you!” She shooed.

 Sam chuckled as he sat down beside her on the couch, watching as they disappeared back into the kitchen. “You have a good day yesterday?” Sam asked in a low voice.

“As good as could be expected," Maggie answered. “How was it?” She said after a brief pause.

“Crowded. It usually is, but he knows he’s loved, knows that we haven’t forgotten about him.” Sam replied.

Maggie grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly, three times, but said nothing.

“I’m glad you weren’t alone on your birthday.”

“You saw to that didn’t you.” She scoffed under her breath.

 “What Nat did? Nah. That was all her. And you were the one that planned dinner with Becca.”

“And brunch?” She mumbled, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“That was Steve.”

 Maggie looked up at him, her expression skeptical.

“Hey," Sam said, putting his hands up defensively. “I know how you get about your birthday.” He leaned over, kissing the top of her head. “One more year around the sun, huh?” He murmured.

“And not for lack of trying.” She replied.

“Well let’s try to work on that over the next year.”

“What avoid being nearly killed by Hydra Nazis? I’ll see what I can do.” Maggie chuckled humorlessly.

“Sounds good.” Sam smiled.

They both turned at the sound of pots and pans crashing in the kitchen. “They’re probably about to burn the place down aren’t they?”

“Yeah, probably. Come on. Let’s go supervise, otherwise, we might be making a run to get take out,” Sam said, standing up.

 “I think I’m gonna change first, I’ll be right in.” She smiled.

“Don’t you even think about leaving me alone for too long with those two," Sam warned, leaning down kissed her on the forehead.

“I’ll be right behind you.” She assured him as he disappeared into the kitchen.

Maggie sighed, rubbing her face, she glanced back over at the Family portrait on the mantelpiece, her gaze focused on James Barnes, meeting his piercing gaze, unaltered by time, but without the fierce anger that she’d seen in those eyes back on Last Chance.

 A sudden anxious feeling crept into the pit of her stomach. _You have to find me, doll._ That’s what he’d said in the dream. But the way he had said it. It had been urgent like she was running out of time. But that couldn’t be right, could it?

Maggie shook her head, rising off the couch, picked up the duffle and retreated into the bathroom to change and freshen up. James Barnes could wait another day. For today, she was going to eat brunch with her friends, have mimosas, and try to work on being thankful that she was still here, along for the ride, prepared to live and fight for another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed! Look Forward to hearing what you all thought! 
> 
> Coincidentally (I swear I didn't plan this) it also happens to be my birthday on Tuesday (the 13th yes I share B-Days with SeaBass). So consider this my gift to all of ya'll! :) 
> 
> Kudos and Comments always welcome and appreciated! And of course, as always, Happy Reading!


	8. A Protector of (Wo)Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> TW: some mentions of violence and mentioned gendered violence (implied rape/sexual assault).
> 
> Recommended Listening: My Hero by Paramore, Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes, Spendin’ All my Rainy Days With you Glenn Crytzer’s Savoy Seven, Sh Boom by Crew Cuts, Mad About the Boy by Helen Forrest and Carmen Dragon and His Orchestra, and Un Sospiro by Frank Liszt
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1253302637/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6

Pulling his jacket closer, he watched the three men exit the apartment building and start their walk down the street, obviously very pleased with themselves. He’d waited outside his neighbor’s door long enough to know that they weren’t going to resort to violence before he’d staked out the exit he’d knew they’d use when they left. When they were a good fifty feet ahead of him, he started walking after.

 This was very quickly becoming a habit. Whether this was a good or a bad habit, he was of two minds, but then again he was of two minds about most things.

 Fortunately, things had been relatively quiet, there hadn’t been any further attempt by Hydra to bring him in, and he’d been able to shelter down in place for most of the winter, moving when he absolutely had to. The new year had come and gone, and now, it looked like he was going to have to move again soon.

_You could’ve stayed longer had you not gotten involved._

That really was the trick, wasn’t it? With Hydra he’d been trained to focus solely on the mission, the mission objective was paramount, no matter the cost. Yet, there was the other part of him, the part that had lived for twenty-six years as Bucky Barnes that wanted to help people, wanted to make this world less of a shit hole. After almost 70 years working with Hydra, he owed the world at least that.

It had started the day the elevator in the apartment building had gone out. There was a lady, his neighbor, struggling with her two small children and several bags of groceries. After ascending several flights of stairs they’d made eye contact, they’d nodded at one another, and he’d asked her if she wanted help. It had gone from there. They’d nod at one another, talk about the weather, inquire after one another’s health, and then climb the twelve flights of stairs up to their floor.

He didn’t know her name, they hadn’t exchanged more than half a dozen words at any given time. However, from what he’d gathered, she was alone, raising two children. Where her children’s father was, he didn’t know, but something felt off about the entire thing. It started as only the barest twinge of an inkling in the back of his mind when he heard heavy booted footsteps come and go from her apartment every week around the same time. Then, one day he’d heard raised voices, something about a loan. Then he’d seen her, they’d made eye contact, and she’d turned away. He couldn’t see any marks on her, but he could see her wince as she picked up her youngest child, and the limp as she started up the stairs.

_She's being harassed by loan sharks._

What precisely the circumstances were, he didn’t know. Was that what had happened to her children’s father? Had he been dying and she’d taken out the loan? His mind spun a universe of possibilities of what had happened to make her take out a loan with these people.

He could see Winifred Barnes, his mother, her hands gnarled and worn to the bone trying to make ends meet, see her expression worn and tired in the woman’s features. He could see his sister Rachel, her heel broken, her nylons torn, walking home with a limp. He could see the wide eyes and fear of his sisters in the face of his neighbor. He could remember the gnawing hunger and the bitter cold and the desperation of being sick in the long cold months. The arguments he’d had with his parents over if he should take out a loan, just to make ends meet. He remembered the type of desperation you were driven to and the stories of what happened to those who couldn’t pay back their loans.

_How will this keep you safe? How will this keep you from Hydra’s clutches? Will that woman be any safer if you become one of their agents again because of your little act of generosity?_

He could see Natalia’s expression, the absolute distaste she’d had for men that would beat defenseless women. He could see the way her jaw tensed, and her eyes narrowed. _Stay on mission_. He’d warned her. Yet she would never listen, and he would help.

He could see Steve Rogers, nose bleeding, with a fresh shiner after one of his many fights in a back alley. _Sometimes, I think you like getting punched._ Steve would look up at him, 'You don’t understand Buck.’ But he did understand. He’d always come to Steve’s aid, and he’d always backed Steve up any time he needed.

He could hear Ramirez’s voice, no more than a low growl, 'Let go of me, Jack...or I’ll break your fucking hand before I break your face.’ Her fists balled, ready to fight.

This shouldn’t be a difficult thing, something that he debated point for point. Yet every time he’d done something like this since leaving Last Chance, it was the continuous debate. He knew which side would win, which side had to win. There wasn’t a choice in this, only an absolute certainty that he needed to help.

His marks were talking loudly, their laughter boisterous and echoing as they walked. They were proud of a job well done, and the fear they inspired in their clients. He picked up the pace, and as if sensing someone was behind them, they started walking a little faster. _Cowards._ He wanted to inspire the same fear in them that he’d seen in the face of his neighbor. Wanted them to know what it was like to feel helpless.

They veered off into an alleyway. _Bad move._ He followed behind them, where the men had found that the gate that was usually unlocked had been chained and padlocked. They turned around to face him.

“I need to talk to you.” He said shortly.

The leader scoffed, “If you want to talk to business. You should come by my office.”

“The widow’s loan.” He continued.

“The widow? You mean the _whore_?” The leader and his two stooges laughed.

He’d been willing, up until this exact moment, to be lenient. He didn’t want to break every bone in their bodies, but he would, and now he would enjoy it.

It only took a second, and the two lackeys were laid out on the ground, and he had the leader pined against the wall by his neck. “What do you want? I’ll do anything I swear!” The man sputtered, his feet desperately searching for the ground.

“Consider the widow’s debt repaid as of now.” He said, pulling a stack of bills from his pocket with his right hand and shoved them in the man’s jacket. “And you cease your _valuable community service,_ immediately. Otherwise, you deal with _me._ Do you understand?” He growled, tightening his grip, the mechanisms in the prosthetic hand whirling and clicking.

The man whimpered.

“I said, do you understand me?”

“Yes, yes, please let me go!” He choked out.

“Good.” He snarled, “Now get the hell out of here.” He dropped the man and watched as he clambered to his feet and darted from the alley, his two associates still stunned. He glanced down at them as they came to. “I’d run if I were you.”

They staggered into a run, nearly tripping over themselves as they went and he watched them go. With any luck that would be the end of it. He would wait to make sure, but then it would be time to move on.

Pulling his jacket closer, and adjusting his hood, he exhaled a long slow breath as a feeling of dread crept into his stomach. Had he made the right choice? He’d thought he’d made the right choice before, and it had ended in nothing but regret. This time he’d stick around long enough to make sure that nothing happened, he’d learned his lesson.

Walking out of the alley onto the main road, he shoved both hands in his pockets and started back toward the apartment complex as the snow began to fall around him in soft flakes. Things were going to be _okay_ for the widow now, he’d make sure of that.

***

_It was raining, she’d been robbed, and one of her heels had broken. Limping down the sidewalk, nylons torn, knee bleeding, Maggie did everything she could to keep from crying. She could only hope she’d be able to get into her apartment, or that the landlord would be at home to let her in. Leaning against a signpost, she fumbled with the ankle strap, trying to undo it so she could at walk a little bit faster._

_Then she froze at the sound of footsteps approaching. Multiple footsteps. Loud, drunken, disorderly footsteps. Her heart started pounding. She didn'_ _t have anything else they could possibly want...unless. She stood up straight, hands balled in a fist, ready to turn around and fight when out of nowhere a hand grabbed her arm._

_Maggie jerked back, whirling around, her free hand raised, turned to face the would-be assailant._

_“_ _Whoa. Whoa. It’s just me.” And there he was, silhouetted in the lamplight, like her knight in shining armor._

 _“_ _Bucky?” She stammered, lowering her hand, blinking through the rain and the tears._

 _“_ _Hey doll, I’m glad I found you. You okay?” He asked as he let go of her arm._

_"Bucky?” She repeated, her voice shaking, her control and resolve melting away in the rain._

_“_ _Can you walk?” He surveyed her quickly._

 _“_ _My...My shoe...oh my shoe...” She managed, tears starting to fall._

 _“_ _You’re shaking, take my coat.” He said, shrugging out of his jacket, draped it over her shoulders. “Let me get those for you.” He knelt down, carefully unclasping the ankle strap, freeing her foot from her broken shoe before doing the same with her other shoe. Rising, he extended his hand to her.“ Com’ on, let’s get you out of this rain.”_

_Maggie nodded, taking his hand, they started walking, the loud, boisterous footfalls had dissolved into nothing._

_“_ _How’d you find me?” She asked, trying to still the shaking in her voice._

 _"_ _Becca hadn't’ heard from you, so she sent me to look," he explained, stopping as she stumbled. “Here, let me support you.” He let her hand go, and put his right hand around her waist._

 _She was shaking, and the world blurred in and out of focus as the whole world spun._ _“It’s okay, you’re okay.” He murmured._

_"Is it?” She tried to laugh._

_“_ I _suppose you’re right.” Bucky conceded after a moment._

 _“_ _Do you often go and rescue your sister’s friends from attackers in the rain?”_

 _“_ _I do, on occasion, provide specific search and rescue services when called upon.”_

 _Maggie chuckled,_ _“What an upstanding citizen you are, James Barnes.”_

_Bucky laughed softly, but said nothing, tightening his grip on her waist._

_Her right hand on the hand he had around her waist, she pulled the coat closer to her with her left, leaning into Bucky_ _’s touch. It was firm but gentle as he guided her down the street. A thought occurred to her. “Barnes, where are we going? You don’t know where I live.”_

_“_ _My folk’s place isn’t too far from here," Bucky replied after a moment. “We can wait out this rain, and find you some dry clothes.”_

_Her stomach dropped._ _“Your parent’s house? Bucky. I don’t think- I mean. You bringing home a strange, wet, brown girl in the middle of the night? It isn’t exactly the first impression I wanted to make on your family.”_

_“_ _Dad’ll be on the night shift, and so it’ll just be ma’ and the girls.” He answered. “Bec’s been talking you up, and ma would have my hide if she knew I let you go home in this condition.”_

_'This Condition?’ She would’ve echoed indignantly, but the last dregs of her energy and fight had long been extinguished, so she simply nodded and put her head against his shoulder as they walked the rest of the way in silence._

_They made their way up the stairs and to the back door. Bucky fished a spare key from under a brick and unlocked it, ushering her inside the dark kitchen._ _“I'll see if I can find you some dry clothes while we wait out the storm.” He whispered as a crash of lightning and thunder rumbled overhead, shaking the dishes and rattling the windows “Stay here.” He motioned to the kitchen table._

 _Turning he froze as the kitchen light flickered on to reveal a Mrs. Winifred Barnes in a nightgown and robe, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, while three other curious faces peered around the corner._ _“James Buchanan Barnes, what do you think you’re doing?” She asked pointedly._

_Bucky opened and closed his mouth, trying to find his words._

_“I_   _was mugged. Your son came and rescue me, and he wanted to make sure I got home safely, but it was raining, and your home was closer than mine. I am so sorry. I lost my key and didn’t know what else to do. I was only going to wait out the storm, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” She rushed, near tears. “I’m so sorry, please don’t be upset with him.”_

 _Mrs. Barnes expression softened._ _“Rachel, go get our guest some dry clothes. Abigail take her to get changed, Becca make up the couch for your brother’s...friend.” Winifred Barnes concluded pointedly before turning to her. “I didn’t catch your name, dear.”_

_“_ _Magdalene Ramirez ma’am, but most people call me Maggie.”_

_At this, Mrs. Barnes smiled warmly._ _“You’re the one my daughter has been telling me so much about.”_

_“Yes, ma’am.” Maggie nodded urgently, tears nearly choking her as she tried to hold them back._

_"Well then, go with Abigail, you can stay with us for the night.” Maggie followed Abigail from the kitchen, glancing back to catch the stern expression Winifred Barnes was leveling on her son._

_Then she was on the couch, wrapped in several blankets with a mug of warm milk, listening to the radio while the Barnes girls chatted quietly. Winifred Barnes sat in a severe chair kitting, and presiding over the whole thing. Bucky sat beside her, also wrapped in blankets, grasping a mug of warm milk in both hands, avidly avoiding eye contact with her._

_“_ _I didn’t get you in trouble, did I?” She murmured into her mug._

_“_ _No.” He shook his head, hair wet and sticking to his face and forehead._

_"_ _Thank you for coming to my rescue.” She said, looking down into her mug._

_“_ _Any time.”_

_They glanced at one another, making eye contact._

_"_ _Time for bed!” Winifred Barnes announced. Everyone rose to their feet. Abigail and Rachel bid Maggie and Bucky goodnight, followed by Becca before Mrs. Barnes turned off the radio. “Tell Miss Ramirez goodnight, and go to bed James.”_

_“_ _Good Night.” He said almost bashfully, pecking her on the cheek like he’d done with sisters only moments before. Wishing his mother goodnight, he retreated down the hall without looking back._

_"_ _Goodnight Mrs. Barnes.” Maggie managed._

_Winifred nodded firmly and walked to her bedroom, leaving the hall light on._

_Maggie had no doubt that woman had every night time sound memorized and that she would know if anyone was out of bed._

_Finishing off her milk, she set the mug on the coffee table, pausing as she caught a motion out of the corner of her eye. Bucky was standing out on the fire escape in the rain, beckoning her to come to the window. Carefully unwrapping herself from the mass of blankets, Maggie carefully made her way to the window. Opening it, Bucky stuck his head inside and kissed her, his hand cupping her face. They pulled away, a devilish grin on his expression._ _“You really thought I’d go to bed without giving you a proper goodnight kiss?” He murmured._

_“_ _You’re going to get us in trouble.” She chuckled quietly._

_“_ _We’ll deal with that in the morning.” He paused, his expression changing, becoming more grave and urgent. “You need to wake up.”_

_"What?”_

_“_ _Wake up, doll! You need to help Steve.”_

Maggie jolted awake and immediately winced. “Fuck.” She breathed.

She’d fallen asleep at the desk again her left arm and hand curled under her, her face on the keyboard. Someone had been kind enough to draw a blanket over her shoulders. She blinked blearily at the computer screen and smiled. The massive data file she’d been downloading had finally completed.

Maggie closed her eyes, trying to recall the rapidly fading dream. She remembered the rain, the warm living room with Mrs. Barnes watching her with those intense blue Barnes eyes. She remembered kissing Barnes on the fire escape, or rather the 1940s Barnes shaped entity of her dreams kissing her.

It had been strange. Since she’d started talking with Becca and learning more and more about the man and his life before being draft and sent off to the European theater during WWII, she’d been having increasingly vivid and suggestive dreams involving her and James Barnes. Her and Bucky going out dancing, her and Bucky at the fairgrounds, her and Bucky apparently going to meet his mother in the middle of a rainstorm at ten o’clock at night after she’d been mugged.

The last one made sense of a sort. She’d been chasing down a potential lead for weeks now and had been entirely absorbed in following that thread involving Barnes apparently preventing mugging, assaults, and just general street harassment. The holidays and come and gone, and now she was facing the approaching the first anniversary of Barnes stumbling onto Last Chance Ranch. All things being equal she’d really, really like it if she didn’t have to spend it in the tower.

_What’s the likelihood that I’m actually going to find him._

She tried to ignore that thought, that nagging persistent feeling in the back of her mind. _We’re going to find him, and then you’ll get to go home._

Maggie sighed, pausing as the sounds of the apartment filtered into her still half-asleep brain. There was piano music, and the smell of coffee brewing, and breakfast being made. Panic overcame her, and she glanced at the time and moaned. “Steve!” She grumbled hauling herself from the office chair and out into the apartment. “It’s almost noon!”

 “It is.” He agreed without looking up from the frying pan where he had two eggs cooking, sunny side up.

“You should’ve woken me up.” She said, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “What can I do?”

“Sit down and drink your orange juice.” He replied. “Freshly squeezed.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, sliding up onto the barstool she took a sip of the OJ Steve had made for her, mind still working through her dream. It had been strange. Dreaming about living in the 1940s and Bucky Barnes coming to the rescue? Bucky Barnes introducing you to his mother? Bucky Barnes kissing you in the rain? But then it had sorta switched and had given her a direct instruction. _You need to help Steve._

Maggie glanced up. Steve was in his standard post work out attire and looked content, making eggs and bacon and toast. They were supposed to hear from Sam and Natasha today about one of their leads.

“I missed the briefing, didn’t I?” She moaned slumping down and putting her head against the granite countertop

"Wasn’t really anything to brief, besides looked like you could use the rest.”

Maggie sat back up, looking up at him. He was trying not to be disappointed, but it radiated from every pore. “I’m sorry, Steve.”

“Just a false start, we’ll find him," Steve said although it didn’t sound like he believed it any more than she did.

She nodded. They’d had a lot of false starts, dead ends, and downright misses. It was hard, and it looked like it was taking its toll on him. She pondered on her dream, what Bucky, or her brain rather, had meant by _you have to help Steve._ She was helping Steve. She was helping him track down the man who’d ruined her life.

_No, not like that._

Maggie pulled out her phone, checking to see if the large file had synced with her other data. She paused, glancing between the phone and It wasn’t a lead so much as it was hearsay, but it was _hopeful_ , and that’s what Steve needed at the moment. “You know how back in June last year I asked you what I thought Barnes was up to, when he’s not yanno, avoiding us?”

“Yeah. And I said I’d rather not think about it.”

 “Well. I found my answer.” Maggie nodded, pinging the file to Steve’s phone. “Check your phone, I can finish that up.” She downed the orange juice and round the bar, taking the spatula from his unprotesting hand, his gaze focused on the phone screen.

 “These...these are all him?” He asked uncertainly.

“From what I can gather yes. They all match the same M.O. I’ve been trying to hack into security feeds to see if my hunch is correct. But right now, it looks like your friend is moonlighting as protector of man...well woman.” She said sneaking a glance at Steve, his eyes glued to the screen. “Does that sound in character for your friend?”

 “Yeah...Yeah, Buck...he uhhh...he used to do that type of stuff Abigail...she uhhh...a guy,” Steve stopped, clearing his throat. “Bucky made it a point to walk his sisters and their friends home. Same with the women he stopped out with. “He paused, glancing up at her. “Can we?”

“No.” She shook her head. “All the stories are weeks, months old. Even if we could trace them back to their direct origins, it’s not likely he’ll still be there.” She said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

 _So he has a history of protecting and or saving women from shitty men._ It wasn't just a fluke then that had happened back on the Ranch with Jack Roberts. How much left of Bucky Barnes, and how much of the soldier remained? They didn’t know, but this was an encouraging sign, to say the least.

They ate their eggs in silence, Steve still pouring over the contents of the file she’d sent him.

Maggie couldn’t help but think about that dream. It had felt so real. The physical and the emotional. _You’re just touch starved and depressed you need a good lay and a therapist._ It was stupid, this was stupid.

So she hadn’t been laid in a while, and meeting people was more or less out of the picture while she was on Hydra’s shit list, and she’d more or less been inundated with warm and fuzzy stories from the man’s sister about what a kind, charming, and delightful human being her brother was.

So she was developing a crush on James Barnes. No, she couldn’t say that. She wasn’t fantasizing about the James Barnes born March 15, 1919, who had fallen off the train in 1945 and been the Winter Soldier for the last seventy years. She was fantasizing about Bucky Barnes, American heartthrob, Howling Commando, and make-believe fictitious every man of her dreams. A man based solely on the memories and recollections of his young sister and his best friend and or lover depending on the day.

To be fair, she was also reading massive quantities of reports, talking about all the horrible shit that the Winter Soldier had done over the course of the last 70 years. The guy had an impressive wrap sheet. But still, it was obvious that these were two very different people, living simultaneously in the body of the. Man who’d slept on her barn. She was the _only_ one who knew the man in the post hydra context. But the part she had a crush on was the near-mythic 1940s sweetheart she’d seen in the newsreels and heard so much about since she’d started looking for the man.

Was this her way of maintaining the bare semblance of normalcy? Dreaming about going out on dates, having regular conversations, meeting normal people? _Being introduced to his mother?_

“Did your friend ever bring anyone home to meet his folks?” Maggie blurted out before she could stop herself.

Steve nearly choked on his eggs. “What?” He coughed.

Taking a large drink of her coffee, she bought herself a little bit of time. Why did she want to know that? Perhaps she was curious if Winifred Barnes had ever given Bucky the same look she’d seen in the dream? Maybe she wanted to know if Bucky had ever dated anyone who wasn’t...well....part of the same demographic? But why did it matter? She wasn’t going to be meeting Barnes any time soon, never mind his mother. But she _was_ curious. “Was Bucky ever serious enough with any of the Dames he stepped out with to bring em’ home to the folks?” Maggie said nearly as amazed to hear that string of words come out of her mouth as Steve was.

“I wouldn’t rightly know. Becca would know more so than me.” Steve said. “Why?”

“No reason. Just curious.” She answered as innocently as she could manage. She was absolutely not prepared to tell Steve that she was having cutesy 1940s wet dreams about his best friend and historical squeeze.

“I mean Bucky was always the charming one. Girls lining up to dance with him, and of course, he was always the perfect gentleman, but at the end of the night, it was always just him and me.” He paused. “I never was sure if I was jealous of Bucky or the girls.” He shook his head. “Anyway. Doesn’t exactly matter now does it?”

“Well. It matters to you. Doesn’t it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It normally is.” She agreed. She wasn’t going to push him. He was having a hard time as it was, She wouldn’t compound it.

“Thank you for coming and checking on me.” She said after a long pause.

“Of course.” Steve nodded. “You’ve been working so hard...I just wanted to make sure...” He paused. “Make sure that you know you have people looking out for you.”

Maggie smiled. “I appreciate that Steve, thank you.”

She surveyed him. He looked tired. Well. Not so much tired as just worn out. Stretched so thin he was nearly see-through. Something had been bothering him, but she couldn’t quite make out what it was. Was it the Avengers? Was it Barnes? Or was it something else? He had made a couple of trips down to Washington D.C. to see Margaret Carter over the past few months, but she wasn’t sure that was it either. Was it something between him and Sam? Surely Sam would’ve mentioned something if they were fighting. Whatever the case, Steve looked as though he could use a hug. If she was being honest, so could she, and it looked like Steve would give great hugs.

“Steve?” She said weakly after a moment.

"Yeah?”

“I could really use a hug.”

“Yeah, me too.” He agreed

They embraced one another, it wasn’t a tight embrace, Steve it seemed was being gentle with her, handling her with care. But she was right, Steve gave amazing hugs, and she leaned into him. It had been forever since she’d just been held and she missed it. There was a collective exhale as they just stood there, held momentarily in each other’s arms.

They parted after a moment, and Steve cleared his throat.

“I appreciate it. Thank you for everything.”

“Of course.” He nodded.

Her phone buzzed, and Maggie grabbed it off the counter and frowned. “Damn. Becca had to cancel again.” She muttered quickly texting her back. “She’s been really busy lately. Is everything okay? I mean with her and the family and everything?” Maggie glanced up at Steve, who had silently retreated back into the kitchen and was doing the dishes. “Steve?”

“Huh?” He replied, feigning like he hadn’t heard her.

Maggie's frown deepened, a knot twisting in her stomach. He was being evasive. Something _was_ wrong, something that Steve wasn’t telling her, and that he wouldn’t tell her if she continued to press him on it. “I was asking if you wanted to go to the MET. There’s an exhibit that opened in December on Mbembe Art, 'Warriors and Mothers’ I think it’s called that I wanted to go see,” She said. “I didn’t want to drag Fabian along for hours and hours. Figured someone with your artistic skill and interest would be happier being drug along to the exhibit, than personal security, if you have the time of course.”

Steve sighed, it was inaudible, but Maggie could see some of the tension ease from his shoulders. “I’d like that, Ramirez. Let me finish up these dishes and get cleaned up.”

She smiled, slipping her phone into her pocket, “Sounds like a plan.”

Whatever was wrong, it could wait. She was doing what Bucky had asked. She was helping Steve, even if it meant being a distraction from their mission. Perhaps she’d be able to get something more about Barnes from Steve in a context divorced from the Avengers and Captain America. Aside from that, it would be good for them, living in the present, rather than in the past, in dreams and memories.

_You need to wake up, doll!_

That had been the other part of his instructions. Did he mean literally wake up? Or was it a different, more cryptic warning? _You can’t live in a dream world._ Even though it was easier, it was nicer to live in dreams and imagine a life and a reality different than her own, perhaps it was time to wake up. Perhaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a shorter one, but I hope you all enjoyed! I know I enjoyed writing this particular chapter! I look forward to hearing what you all thought! Comments and Kudos always welcome and appreciated! We're nearly halfway through this fic! Any guesses on what's going to happen? Or what Mags and the gang are going to get up to? I look forward to hearing from you! Happy Reading!


	9. Goodbye Doesn't Mean Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance' and is Part II of IV of my "Find Your Way Home" Series. So if you're confused, that's why.
> 
> Tw: cancer, alcohol, unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied death
> 
> Recommended Listening: I'll be Seeing You by Billie Holiday, Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye by Ella Fitzgerald, Dream a little Dream of Me by Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong, For All We Know by Nat King Cole
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1253302637/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6

He didn’t often look in the mirror. He found it unsettling, looking at the unfamiliar person in the reflection, staring back at him. Yet, he’d grown accustomed to it, over the past months, since leaving Last Chance, sneaking glances while he was brushing his teeth or just after showering. He didn’t really look at himself while shaving, almost entirely engrossed in the process, trying not to nick or catch his skin. The issue of his hair had, however, meant he’d spent more and more time looking in the mirror as he tried to decide what he wanted to do with the long and increasingly tangled mess of hair.

He’d never had his hair this long. While he’d had long hair with Hydra, that had been for purposes of a quick disguise if compromised. In the time before Hydra, he could distinctly remember Steve and most of his family commenting any time his hair even started brushing the tops of his ears. His mother had given him most of his haircuts growing up. He could recall sitting in the bright kitchen, on a stool, newspaper spread around him, the snip, snip, snip of his mother’s scissors working diligently to evenly cut his hair. Later, after he’d moved out, Steve would cut his hair, and he’d learned to cut Steve’s hair, though he’d been rotten at it.

Steve had always better at that kind of stuff, had a better eye for that type of thing, anyway.

He ran his fingers through the long tangled mass of wet hair, in a feeble attempt to untangle a rather nasty knotted mass, and winced.

He could practically hear his youngest sister, Becca, complaining as he tried to untangle her hair.

“ _Becca I need you to hold still.” He instructed firmly, the fingers of his left hand on the crown of her head, his right hand holding a brush._

_"You’re hurting me.”_

_“_ _I promise I’m trying not to.” He said, glancing over his shoulder at his mother who was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands chapped and bleeding, the slightest hint of a tremor to them as she grasped a hot mug of coffee, trying to ease some warmth and life into them._

 _“_ _You’re doing just fine James.” She urged encouragingly, in her even kind tone, reserved for frightened animals and small children._

He could hear the earnest way that Becca instructed him how to do her hair. Insisting that he do it over if he didn’t get it right the first time. She couldn’t have been more than six or seven at the time. Abigail and Rachel, they’d both be out of the house before Becca would be ready to go to school. He’d be getting off a night shift so he could help get Becca ready for school when their mother couldn’t.

Reaching cautiously into the plastic shopping bag spread out on the bathroom sink, he removed a brush, an assortment of hair ties and a package of scrunches in different colors. The clerk had asked if they were for his daughter. 'For my little sister,” he’d managed to mutter before leaving the store.

Pulling the brush through his hair, he winced and flinched as the brush bristles snagged and caught on the tangles.

_No wonder Becca had always complained when I brushed her hair._

When he’d thoroughly brushed out his hair, he carefully selected a couple of brightly colored hair ties, one in neon orange, the other in a royal blue, along with a pink satin scrunchie and a cream satin scrunchie. They were frivolous and stupid and served no function beyond aesthetics, but he’d seen them, and they’d reminded him of the many hair ribbons his sisters had tied or braided into their hair as girls.

He held the scrunchies in both hands, the satin caught and snagged on the metal plates of the prosthesis, but they were soft and silky as he slipped them on his right wrist. Hair ties gritted between his teeth, he fumbled awkwardly, gathering his hair up into a single bun on top of his head. It was harder than he remembered it being but eventually managed to secure the mass of hair on the top his head with a hair tie, and the pink satin scrunchie.

He surveyed his reflection critically. _Is that really what my ears look like?_ He mused silently. His face looked different without all the hair hanging around it. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. It was just _strange._

 “No.” He shook his head, pulling both the scrunchie and tie from the bun and letting his hair fall freely back around his face.

How was it that his sisters had worn their hair when they were little? Braids and pigtails mostly, then as they’d gotten older their hairstyles had gotten more complicated, involving pins and curlers, and every type of hair product you could imagine or make.

He parted his hair down the middle and gathered the two halves into two ponytails. First low at the base of his neck and then again on the crown of his head. Then he transformed them into buns.

Pausing to examine his work, he couldn’t help but crack a small smile at his reflection. He could hear his sisters giggling as they ran their fingers through his hair. _You don’t have enough hair for curlers!_ They’d commented as they’d tried to put his hair up in pin curls.

He had more than enough hair for them now, he couldn’t help but observe. He could practically hear his mother scolding him, _James Buchanan Barnes, sit down and let me cut your hair right this instant! How could you have allowed it get so long?_ He could see her go for the scissors she used specifically for cutting the family’s hair. He could see Steve snickering in the corner, barely able to keep a straight face.

Of course, by the time he’d left, Abby and Rachel were grown women with jobs and lives of their own, and Bec, Bec, of course, had been well on her way. None of them had needed his help with their hair, and hadn’t for years. Yet, he couldn’t help but think how simple it had all seemed, now, looking back, after everything that had happened.

He returned his gaze to the mirror. _No. They’re too visible, the colors too bright, you’d draw too much attention._ He sighed, pulling the hair ties and scrunches from his hair and set them aside, picking up the brush again. How difficult everything seemed now.

Did she remember him? He couldn’t help but wonder. Did she remember him helping her get ready for school in the morning, and how horribly he’d done her hair those first few times? Did she remember him at all? How long had it taken his family to stop speaking of him in the present tense, to stop speaking of him at all?

 He shook his head. It wasn’t his place to wonder that. His only responsibility was staying away, staying alive, and staying out of Hydra’s hands.

 

***

Maggie was excited. She could tell by the way her knee was bouncing up and down in the seat as the familiar Brooklyn skyline came into view, and they turned down Becca’s street. It had been a little while since she’d been able to meet up with Becca and she had news. She’d been able to get clearer photos from security footage in Belfast, Copenhagen, and Berlin showing Bucky beating up street harassers. On top of that, she’d been able to narrow down where he was likely headed.

“I’ll see you at four Fabian!” She called into the car as she climbed out and shut the door behind her.

Running up the steps, she knocked on the door. “Hey Bec-” She faltered at the sight of James Martinez-Proctor. “Hi. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Becca had company, I can come back another time.”

“No. No. Come on in Ms. Ramirez. She’s expecting you.” James waved her in the door. “How have you been?”

“Oh, busy. I trust you, and all of your family have been well,” She replied as she was ushered into the living room. Maggie stopped, a sinking feeling of dread twisting in the pit of her stomach. Two of Becca’s daughters Mary and Stephanie were sitting on the couch talking quietly, but stopped when they saw her, turning their gazes to her.

“Mother is in her room resting. She told me to tell you to head on back whenever you arrived." James said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Maggie nodded but said nothing walking in an almost dream-like haze back to the master bedroom. _This isn’t what it looks like, it can’t be._ She repeated to herself like a mantra over and over and over again as if it would make it true.

Pausing in the doorway, she found Becca sitting in an overstuffed La-z-boy, a book on her lap, glasses in her hands, dozing quietly.

Maggie felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room, and she was suffocating. She had been here before, and she knew what came next.

 “How long have you been standing there, dear?” Becca’s voice brought her back, rooting her solidly in the moment.

“Just showed up.” Maggie smiled weakly. “You sure you’re feeling up for visitors?”

“Of course.” She nodded, scooting over in the chair, pat beside her. “Come here and tell me your news. You sounded excited in your texts, and I wanted to hear it in person.”

Maggie obliged, settling down beside Becca in the large chair, she opened up her satchel and removed the photographs she’d made of the security footage. It all felt hollow. “So. You know how I told you back in mid-February that Bucky had been protecting people, women, and girls mostly, from street harassers and the like? Well, I was able to gain access to the security feeds and caught a few clips of him. In the act.” She said, holding them out for Becca.

“That’s wonderful," Becca said, taking each of the photographs one by one in hand and surveying them carefully.

 “And I think I may have found a lead that will narrow down his location.”

Becca set the photographs down and turned and looked at her, meeting her gaze fully for the first time. “You really have been working very hard, Maggie. I appreciate it tremendously, as do all of my children.”

“Of course. I want to bring your brother home, I want you to be able to see him again.”

“I know sweet girl.” Becca smiled sadly, grabbing Maggie’s hand, squeezed it weakly. “I know. But sometimes things don’t work out the way we’d like them to.”        

So it was true. Everything that Maggie hadn’t been putting together was true. The prolonged sickness, the increase of family, Steve’s weird moods. Becca was dying. Maggie nodded, swallowing hard as a lump formed in her throat. “How long?”

“A few weeks, a month at most. But I’ve known for a while now, cancer’s a terrible thing, but it’s given me enough time to put my affairs in orders.” Becca paused as an errant tear slipped down Maggie’ cheek. “Now Now.” She said, wiping Maggie’s face. “It’s okay. I’m not in any pain, and I’m living out my last days the way I want. Surrounded by the people I love, and who love me very much.”

 _Why didn’t you tell me,'_ Maggie wanted to ask. But that wasn’t her place really, it wasn’t any of her business, but she felt hurt and betrayed.

“I didn’t want you to fret, and I didn’t want to ruin our lovely visits with the dark specter of my frail mortality," Becca said gently. “Please don’t cry for me. I’ve lived a wonderful life.”

Maggie nodded, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t find him in time.” She choked out, her voice small.

"Oh no, don’t do that.” Becca shushed. “I’ve known for a while now I wasn’t going to see him again.” The woman paused, her thoughts going far away before she pulled herself back. “If I’m honest with myself I’m not sure I’d want him to see me like this. I think perhaps it’s better this way. To be able to remember one another as we were, not what the world made us into.” She said, taking Maggie’s hand again. “What matters Magdalen is that Bucky brought you and me together.”

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t be here if not for him, and I wouldn’t have gotten to talk about my brother again if not for you.” Maggie opened her mouth to interject, but Becca charged on. “You’ve helped me to talk about someone I loved dearly, but hadn’t spoken of since he’d disappeared. You helped me process and heal and grieve in so many ways that I can’t possibly express, but I am extraordinarily grateful to you.” Becca smiled wearily. “Bit by bit I’ve been giving him to you, you know, my Bucky, that way when you find him, and I know you will, you can tell him that his little sister, and all of his family for that matter, never forgot about him and that we loved him very much.”

“I’ll do my best.” Maggie managed weakly.

“I know you will. And that’s all that I can ask of you, all anyone can ask of another person.” Becca said, surveying Maggie’s face, she cracked a small smile. “I know I’ve said this before, but it’s a shame we didn’t meet sooner. I’ve had such a good time getting to know you. I can only imagine how we would’ve gotten along and gotten into trouble back in the day. Bucky, my Bucky, would have loved you.”

Maggie chuckled, shaking her head, “Thank you, Becca.” She could hardly imagine anyone, least of all Bucky Barnes giving her the time of day. Above all, Maggie couldn’t imagine being in a place that allowed her a relationship, not when it felt like every time she started to build something with another person, they were ripped away from her. It had happened too many times, and now it appeared it was happening again.

“Oh, I know you don’t believe me, but I know it true because I love you, so very very much Magdalen," Becca said.

There was a long pause while Becca plotted out what she was going to say next. “It’s not your job to look after Steve. He’s a grown man, he should be able to take of himself, but-” Becca wavered. “Don’t let him forget who he is, beneath all of the Captain America bullshit. Make sure he remembers that there is life, beyond all of that waiting for him.”

Maggie chuckled but nodded. “I will absolutely do my best on that.”

“Good.” Becca smiled. “Now, before I send you on your way home, I think I have a couple more stories left in me. If you’re interested in hearing them.”

“Always," Maggie said.

They talked for nearly four hours. When Becca ran out of stories, Maggie asked questions about family holidays and traditions, what foods she remembered Steve and Bucky had liked, doing anything and everything to drag out the time, and keep the clock from marching unrelentingly forward. Yet, onward and onward time marched, and Maggie knew their last visit would be drawing to a definitive close. As the older woman began to nod off in the chair beside her, Maggie knew it was time. “I should let you get some rest,” Maggie said gently, collecting her things she rose from the chair.

“You’re a good girl.” Becca smiled. “Come here.” She waved Maggie to her. Immersing her in a hug, Becca stroked the back of her head. “You’re a wonderful person and a beautiful, beautiful soul, Magdalen, it’s been an honor and privilege getting to know you.”

 “Thank you, Becca, thank you for everything.” Maggie could feel the tears starting again, and she’d been doing so well too.

“Of course, my dear.” Becca smiled as they pulled apart from their embrace. Becca held Maggie’s hands in both hers, her thumbs stroking Maggie’s hands. “It’s going to be okay. You know that, right? No matter what happens. It’s going to be all right.”

Maggie took a deep breath and nodded, blinking slowly. She didn’t want to say goodbye, didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to walk out the door knowing that she would never see her friend again. “I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Becca.” Maggie managed, tears now flowing down her face.

“You have so much to live for, dear girl. Don’t let the past weigh you down.” Becca said.

Maggie nodded again, turning at the sound of a knock at the door. It was James. “I’m sorry to interrupt. It’s time for meds and dinner. If you’d like to stay, Ms. Ramirez, we have plenty .”

 Maggie staggered to her, feet, wiping her face. “No. No. I should go. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.” She turned to Becca, squeezing the woman’s frail hand gently. “Sleep well. We’ll talk soon.” Maggie tried to smile.

“Send Stark my regards.”

“Always.” Maggie nodded, letting go of Becca’s hand, walked past James, from the bedroom and out of the apartment where Fabian was waiting for her. She didn’t look back. She knew that if she had the whole world would’ve crumbled and she would’ve collapsed on the pavement right then and there.

Maggie rode back to the tower in silence, clutching her bag to her, her hands clenched on the canvas, her jaw gritted. Walking into her apartment, she made a beeline for the office, pulling open her files, and removing her journal from her bag. She tried to focus on her breathing, trying to regulate her heartbeat, tried to bend her body and her mind around the single objective she was now striving toward. She had to find James Barnes, she had to find James Barnes before it was too late. Nothing else mattered. Becca deserved closure, deserved to see her brother again, even one last time, and Maggie wanted to make sure that happened.

Her hands moved frantically over her files, adrenaline and grief, and anger making her shake. Her eyes focused on the computer screen scrolling through every map, SAT scan, every bit of intel they’d collected since last May.

It took everything she had, every fiber of her being to remain calm, and keep focused as a cauldron of emotions bubbled and boiled just below the surface, threatening to overflow at any given moment. Her head ached and her eyes watered, but she continued working, trying to overtake Barnes, and the clock.

Beneath it all, a single ember burned, white-hot, burning a jagged hole in her. This was unfair. What was worse was that she knew it was unfair because she’d been here before, and she hated it. She hated how it had been kept from her, hated what it meant, hated that she’d failed.

 “Come in, it’s unlocked” She called absently at the knock at the door.

“How you holding up?”

Maggie stopped, blinking blearily, she looked over the computer screen to the doorway where Sam was standing. “What do you mean?”

“Steve told me, about Becca," Sam said, haltingly.

“You mean, he knew?” Maggie asked. The room dropped several degrees.

“Mags- I-”

“Tell me he didn’t know, Sam." Again Sam said nothing, and Maggie could feel the tight knot in her chest constrict. “Sammie?” Maggie’s voice cracked.

“He knew she was sick. He didn’t know she was dying until November.”

 _Her birthday._ The low, hushed conversation as she’d woken up to. The strange mood he’d been in all through the holidays. It all made sense. He’d known Becca was dying, and he hadn’t told her anything. He’d known, and he hadn’t hinted that maybe they should hurry up, that maybe Maggie should do better, that maybe there was something urgent about their search for Barnes. Steve had known her friend was dying and had said nothing.

“Sam, where is he?” She asked her voice, choked with tears.

“Mags-”          

“Sam, where is he!?” She snapped her voice echoing in the small space.

“Croatia.”

“And he sent you to clean up his mess, did he? Great.” Maggie drawled sarcastically, wiping at the tears streaming down her face.

“Mags.”

“Did you know Sam? Did you keep this from me too?”

“No. Steve just told me about thirty minutes ago.”

“So you _are_ here to clean up his mess. _Perfect_.” Maggie laughed harshly as she rose to her feet.

“What do you want me to say, Mags?” Sam asked, following her to the kitchen.

“Not a damn thing, Sammie. I don’t _expect_ you to do anything." Maggie said, pulling a bottle of wine off the counter, she opened it and took a large draw.

Lowering the bottle, she walked back toward the office. “So. What’s our move? Where do we look for Barnes next?”

“Mags.”

“We know he’s in Europe. We know he’s in Eastern Europe.” She went to the map, taking another drink from the bottle.

“Mags.”

“So what are we missing? What have we overlooked? What am I not seeing?" She muttered.

“Mags. You’re upset. You need to slow down and process.”

“I can’t Sammie.” She shook her head.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

Maggie raised the bottle to her lips, then reconsidered. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shook her head, wincing.

Sam sighed, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find Barnes.” Her voice came out choked and small. “There isn’t another option.”

“We’ve been looking since-”

“Since Hydra burned our house to the ground, smashed my hand, and left me for dead.” She cut him off, whirling around to face him. “That about sum it up?” Maggie bit out with a harsh laugh. “I need to do this Sam, I need to find Bucky, I need to bring him home so Becca can have closure, so they can say goodbye.”

“And what if you can’t?” Sam asked.

“That’s not an option.”

 “You know that’s not true.”

She looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears before continuing in a low, more controlled tone. “Sam. This is Becca Barnes. This is the little sister of James Barnes, Steve’s best friend and lover. After all the shit Bucky has gone through, and Becca has gone through they deserve to say goodbye, properly. They deserve better.”

There was a long pause before Sam spoke. “Mags. This isn’t Antonio, this isn’t your mother, or your grandfather, or Riley. You can’t change what happened to you by trying to find Barnes for Becca Proctor.”

Maggie didn’t say anything. She just rolled her eyes and she took another drink.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I can make you something.”

"Sammie.”

“You should probably eat something, Mags.”

Maggie turned to him, “You don’t have to do this, Sam.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend that I’m anything more than just a painful memory,” She said, weakly. “That’s what I was to my father after my brother and mother died. That’s what I was to my grandfather there near the end, and that’s what I am to you.”

There was a long silence as Sam worked out what to say. “Is that really all you think you are?”

Maggie shook her head, finishing off the rest of the wine. “Doesn’t matter.” She walked over to her desk, and dropped the empty wine bottle in the recycling can under her desk. She exhaled a strangled sigh as she saw her phone buzz. It was Steve.

“You going to answer that?” Sam asked.

“You tell him to call me?” Maggie replied, sending the call to voice mail.

“He wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t have anything to report, and I have work to do.” She said, wiping her face with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“Mags. You can’t avoid him. He wants to talk to you, he needs you to understand-”

"I know why he didn’t tell me. Becca didn’t want him to. She didn’t want me to fret before I needed to, didn’t want me to be sad or be worried, or whatever. She did it to protect me.” Maggie said shortly as she logged back into her computer. “I don’t feel protected, and I don’t feel protected by _him_ at the moment.”

“You know he’s grieving too.”

“He’s not my partner, brother, father, or son. His feelings are _not_ my problem right now, not if he wants me to find Barnes any time this century.”

“He is your friend, and you’re his.”

“Is he? Because I don’t think friends would keep something like this from their friends. Best intentions and all of that be dammed.”  

Sam sighed nodding. “You’re going to have to talk to him eventually.”

“Eventually.” She echoed. “Thank you for stopping by. You can report to Steve that I’m pissed, but ready to work to bring Barnes in.” She said shortly.

“All right, I get it. You want to be left alone.” He said. “I’ll be around if you decide you want company.”

“Can do.”

Sam hesitated in the doorway of the office, “Be careful, Maggie,” he said finally before walking from the office and from the apartment.

Maggie exhaled a long and shaking breath as the front door shut behind him. She wanted to call him back, wanted to apologize, wanted to ask him to hold her while she sobbed, ask him to tell her it was going to be okay, but nothing her or anyone could do or say at the moment was going to make this better. She had to focus on the task ahead of her, she had one job, one mission, one objective, and she was going to fulfill it, consequences be damned.

“Okay Maggie, focus, you don’t have long.” She wiped at the tears streaking her cheeks.

Then, slowly she reached down to the bottom drawer of the desk, unlocked it and removed the thick sealed packet Romanoff had given her months ago. _The point of no return._

 _If I can_ _’t find Barnes, I can’t go home._ She fingered the seal, swallowing hard. _If I can’t bring Barnes home to say goodbye to his sister, then do I really deserve to go home?_ Maggie broke the seal and opened the file. Setting it on the desk, she adjusted her chair, picked up a pencil and her notebook, and extended her left hand to the first page, ignoring the way that her whole body trembled.

“Well,” She sniffled to the office and the world in general, “there’s nothing else for it, let’s get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, the next two chapters are dealing with the fall out from this chapter. I will be posting in rapid succession to get the chapters out of the way. Thank you all for reading I look forward to hearing what you all think. (*dodges the rotten fruit* I know I know I'm mean I'm sorry!) As always I love hearing from you and love chatting fic with all you guys! I hope you enjoyed? And See you next time!
> 
> ~Happy Reading!


	10. The Show Must Go On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> TW: self-harm, self-harm ideation, bad coping mechanisms
> 
> Recommended Listening: The Boxer by Mumford and Sons, Show Must Go On by Queen, Thistle & Weeds by Mumford and Sons,

Winter was slowly giving way to spring, and it felt the entire world was out in the streets and parks of the city, basking in the feeble warm light of the sun. He had ventured outdoors and was sitting on a park bench, watching the assorted mass of humanity moving through the public space.

There were, of course, the vendors and tradesmen hocking their wares, everything from peanuts and pretzels, to knock off handbags and watches. There were families with young children in tow, teenagers in droves with that unmistakable air of new ground freedom on their faces. There were couples, young and old, holding hands, sharing sweets, and smiling broadly at one another. There were individuals throwing frisbees or balls with their dogs, or groups of friends just laughing and chatting and having a good time.

All of them blissful and happy and very clearly enjoying themselves, unaware of his watchful gaze. He removed his journal from his backpack and opened it to a blank page.

He’d been thinking more about his life before, about his family, his parents, sisters, and Steve. Days like this, bright, warm days with a cool breeze made it easier to think about the before, and the sensory input made memories crash against him in waves.

The cool grass and clear blue sky filled with puffy white clouds. He could remember lying in the grass elbow to elbow with Steve, watching the clouds float by. He could remember the long strolls and family picnics when the family all managed to get time off at the same time.

The sizzle of meat cooking and the gentle sound of water splashing that reminded him of their trips down to the boardwalk and the calls and cries of the vendors their many trips down to Coney Island.

There was the smell of popcorn, and he could practically taste the movie popcorn when he, Steve and Becca, would eat when they went to the movies. Steve and Becca would always chat excitedly on their way back home through their favorite parts. They’d gone to see Snow White five times. Steve had been impressed with the animation and had talked about the techniques uses to produce the movement and color for months after the fact.

The sounds of pleasant laughter and talking. He’d often walk with Becca to the soda fountain after school. She’d always tell him about her day, what had happened, what she’d learned and of course the ever-changing school gossip and teenage drama.

It had all felt so boring, so mundane. He’d felt trapped, trapped in a routine to which there was no escape. How wrong he’d been.

He looked down at the blank page. What could he say? What was there to say that would even begin to touch what he was feeling, how he was feeling, what he was remembering.

Adjusting the pen in his grip, he wrote. "Today I remembered..." he didn’t know how to continue. "What it meant to live?" He concluded with a question mark, which he traced over several times in heavy black ink.

It was corny, and cliche, and downright stupid, but it was true. What he had done over the past seventy years could hardly be considered living. There were aspects of it that did involve living. He’d eaten, slept, on occasion, he’d even developed a few relationships, some more memorable than others. But that was minuscule compared to the rest of it. He’d been wielded like a weapon: used, repaired, and then stored for future deployment.

He glanced around. Was he living now? What would living mean after 70 years of being nothing more than a hostage and implement? He wasn’t living right now. He was barely surviving. He wasn’t even ready to face Steve, and come face to face with his past in any way more real than the Smithsonian. What would it mean to go home? Could he go home one day? Reunite with his sister and go back to drinking root beers at the soda fountain? What would that look like? Could he reconcile what he’d spent seventy years doing, with the person Steve and Becca remembered? Could they? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.

Snapping the journal shut, he shoved it back in his backpack and removed the lunch he’d packed for himself. That was a question to be answered another day. Right now, surviving and living had to be one and the same. Maybe someday it wouldn’t have to be, but for today he didn’t have a choice.

***

Maggie was in a briefing. That’s what her life was at the moment, a never-ending series of briefings, punctuated with the trappings of living a healthy human person life. She ate, worked out, practiced her languages, worked on work stuff for Steve, Sam, and Nat, and occasionally she even slept, though at the moment it was fitful and often ended in nightmares.

 “What do you have for us, Ramirez?”

Maggie blinked, suddenly aware that Sam and Steve were both directing their full attention to her, aware that she’d been drifting. She cleared her throat, rising to her feet. “Argentina.” She said shortly, pulling out satellite images, and supporting documents. “I found an old Hydra base in Argentina.”

She’d been going through the files that Nat had given her. Most of them were in Russian, but Maggie had been surprised when one of them had contained Russian and Spanish, leading her to the discovery of the old base. “It appears to be a medical and scientific experimentation field laboratory. There was some kind of explosion back in the 1990s. I haven’t been able to find anything about the causes of the explosion. However, from what I’ve gathered, Hydra was operating in Argentina as early as 1945, but with some increased frequency in the 1970s. I don’t think Barnes is headed there, but I do think it might give us some more leads on where he is, or where other Hydra research laboratories might be.” She explained.

She showed them what the SAT scans had revealed, and how deep underground the compound went, as well as the historical and political significance of the area to Hydra, the United States, and post-war Germany. When she concluded, she turned her focus back on Steve and Sam, who were both deep in thought.

“Ramirez, I’m going to put you and Wilson on this. You know the language, you’d be able to communicate better with the locals and be able to get updated intel on the area without creating too much suspicion. I’ll send your information over to get you the proper paperwork and documents for you to travel out of the states.” Steve said firmly. “Wilson. I’d still like you to go to Prague and Warsaw, just to check up on what Romanoff found. So. Two weeks? And then you and Ramirez will go to Argentina. Fly into Buenos Aires and obtain ground transport from there to where you need to go.”

“Sounds like a plan, Cap.’” Sam nodded.

“Sounds good.” Maggie agreed with a heavy sigh, sinking back down into her office chair.

“All right, meeting's adjourned," Steve announced.

“See y'all tomorrow, same time then unless anything changes.” She mumbled, returning her focus to a folder she’d set aside, and started pulling out documents.

It would be nice to get out of the office for a bit. A trip to Argentina to track down a rogue nazi-hydra assassin. Maggie couldn’t help but feel a little excited, she was living out a personal spy, international woman of mystery fantasy. But in the back of her mind was a nagging question, unrelenting and unceasing, would it be enough? Would it lead them to Barnes in time?

 She could hear Sam and Steve talking by the door, and then Sam walked out of the office and to the kitchen, leaving her and Steve alone.

“Hey, Ramirez.” Steve began slowly, and she looked up to find him standing squarely in front of her desk.

He was dressed in his Captain America outfit, posture straight and rigid like a statue. Of course, he’d been kind enough to leave the cowl back upstairs, but she could still tell it was Captain Rogers, rather than Steve that she was speaking to. Over the last week and a half, she had done her best to avoid him, which hadn’t been hard considering he’d been in and out of the tower for missions, and she’d downright refused to speak to him if they did run into one another. It was petty, but she knew she didn’t have anything productive to say to him, and that she didn’t want any distractions from what she was doing. She was going to find Barnes, and she was going to bring him home to say goodbye.

“Can I help you with something?” She asked crisply.

“Sam told me. Can we talk? Please?”

“No," Maggie said flatly.

“Oh. Okay. That’s fine.” He stammered.

There he was, there was Steve Rogers, under the mask, behind the shield of Captain America. That was the man that Becca knew, that was the man who’d chosen to withhold valuable, time-sensitive information from her. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but frankly, there’s nothing you can say to me that I want to hear, and presently, there isn’t anything that I want to say to you. So until that changes, I feel that it’s important that we’re able to maintain a professional working relationship.”

Steve nodded, “Okay. I understand.” He hesitated, “Thank you. For all of your hard work. It means a lot to me, and I know it means a lot to Bec-”

"As I said before, _Captain,_ ” Maggie interjected, “there’s nothing you can say to me that I want to hear, and there’s nothing more that I want to say to you. So unless you have further business matters to discuss, I think we’re done here.” She said shortly, tears were close to the surface, threatening to choke her, but she kept her voice steady.

“Keep me informed on anything you find. I’ll let you know of any status changes.”

“Understood.” Maggie nodded firmly.

Steve paused a moment, surveying her, opening his mouth, he looked as though he was about to say something, but instead, shut his mouth again and walked from the office and the apartment followed by Sam.

Maggie was alone. “Fu-ck!” She moaned, stretching the word out into at least two syllables. Throwing both arms over her face as she leaned back in the office chair.

Her head pounded, her whole body ached, and she felt dizzy and light-headed. She wanted a nap, a pot of coffee, a long shower, a good orgasm, and a steak, in no particular order. She wanted to stop hurting. She wanted to be able to sleep. She wanted to be able to go down the block to get tacos from the food truck without it becoming a security issue. She wanted the unrelenting pressure behind her eyes to ease, and the persistent crick in her neck to disappear. She wanted to scream, and cry, and throw the biggest temper tantrum any 31-year-old woman could throw. But she knew it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t help her nightmares, it wouldn’t help her anxiety, her depression, and it wouldn’t stop the ever itching urge to crush a glass bottle in her hand, just to watch herself bleed.

 Maggie sat upright, picking up the Captain America Stress doll. Squeezing it as hard as she could, Maggie couldn’t help but feel a little satisfaction watching the doll’s eyes bulge to the point of nearly popping as she worked the little rubber figurine.

Eyes. She could still see their eyes, watching her, pricing her body and soul with their unrelenting, unstoppable gaze. They stood around her, in silence at first, Her mother, her brother, her grandparents, Riley, Tim, Alice, Suzanne, Bill, Mike, Mitchell, James, and all the other people of Last Chance Ranch, and of course Becca and all of her family alive and dead, staring with dead eyes, watching her, waiting expectantly. Then he was there, not James Barnes but also not the Winter Soldier. It was Matt, the man she’d found in her barn. _I thought you said you were going to help us?_ The voice was accusing and cold. _I thought you said you were going to help!_

Around the circle of faces, the phrase was echoed in a thousand different way in a thousand different iterations, as their faces twisted into horrible, ghoulish caricatures, laughing and mocking her. Their voices echoing in her ears, as they came closer and closer, until they were on top of her, crushing her, suffocating her with their weight.

She’d woken up nearly every night with an iteration of that dream, gasping for air, and crying. Now, it just didn’t feel worth it to sleep. Or at least to willingly go to sleep.

 _Can’t work, can’t sleep, so it’s time to go and work out._ Maggie rose and went to change. She was too exhausted to handle firearms, and at any rate with the way she was feeling, she shouldn’t be trusted with anything sharper than a spork at the moment. So she’d been lifting weights and running more recently. It was the only way she could sleep. Run herself into the ground until the exhaustion overtook her brain’s inability to shut off.

The treadmill was set too fast, but Maggie didn’t care. It was thrilling, knowing at any second she’d be headed for calamity. Strangely, she liked the way her heart pounded, and her lungs ached, and every part of her screamed at her to stop.

This wasn’t healthy. This wasn’t a healthy way to be coping. If she’d been talking to one of her guys, she would’ve suggested upping their visits, going to see a psychiatrist and getting on meds. Seeking help to disrupt the destructive spiral they were in and find a way to start processing their grief and trauma begin the healing process. Only she wasn’t talking to one of her guys. She _knew_ she was in a self-destructive spiral. The only question was, _so what?_ What did it matter? Who cared? Or who cared enough to say anything? After all, she was just and only collateral damage. What would it matter if she just fell off the edge of the earth?

As if the universe was listening, Maggie tripped, and the treadmill spat her out onto the gym floor, face down. She’d fallen all right. Just not off the face of the earth as hoped. Maggie lay there a moment, temporary stunned, uncertain if she should laugh or cry.

Slowly, she realized she was being prodded. Rolling onto her back, she found Nat standing over her. However, rather than the amused expression that Maggie expected on her face, there was a line of concern etched between her brows. “You all right?” Nat asked.

“Oh. Just peachy. You come to finish me off?” She moaned, pushing herself into a sitting position.

“I could.” Natasha nodded, glancing around. “But Stark has this place under pretty good surveillance that with the added hassle of getting rid of a body in uptown manhattan at this time of night on a Saturday, more effort than its worth.” A corner of her mouth twitched in what could almost be considered the faintest hint of a smile and extended her hand to Maggie.

“Thanks? I think?” She took Natasha’s hand, and the woman pulled her to her feet with ease.

“You look like you want to punch someone.”

“That about sums it up.”

“They’re worried about you, you know?”

“Sam and Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, ain’t that special.” Maggie drawled, rolling her eyes. So Steve had told Nat as well. It seemed like everyone in the tower knew that she was upset. _Fantastic._ This was absolutely the last thing she needed, coddling.

“So who do you want to punch?”

“Steve? Sam? Barnes? Anyone of them I could get my hands on at the moment.”

“Well.” Nat paused, surveying her. “You’re not going to be able to do that in your condition. Come on.” She took Maggie by the arm and led her over to the punching bags. “Do you know how to punch?”

“I haven’t in a while, but I'm sure the mechanics are the same.”

 “Do you know how to punch with your hand being like that?” Natasha amended, motioning to Maggie’s left hand, with her chin.

“Don’t use the hand Hydra crushed?” Maggie asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

 “Let me show you how. The last thing you wanna do is risk re-injuring yourself. And if you’re going to punch anyone you’re going to need to practice.” Natasha paused, “First, you use gloves.”

Maggie watched as Natasha explained how to wrap her hands before demonstrating. Maggie then spent thirty minutes painstakingly applying tape to both hands before even so much as touching a boxing glove or punching bag.

Then, once Natasha showed her some basic moves and techniques, Maggie went to town on the bag, Natasha occasionally stopping to correct her form.

“You feel better?” Natasha asked as they sat down on the gym floor for a water break.

“I feel tired and achy.” Maggie tried to chuckle.

“Well, that’s a start,” Nat commented, passing the water bottle to her.

Maggie took a long drink. She wasn’t sure how to feel. Everything hurt, yet she felt numb, she wanted to cry, and yet she knew no tears would come. She glanced over at Natasha who was just sitting next to her, looking straight ahead at the bag they’d just been boxing with.

“So when are we going to spar?”

Natasha snorted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What? Afraid you’re going to break me?”

“From the looks of things, that wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome.”

Maggie sighed, rubbing her forehead with the back of her glove. “Well. I don’t think it would matter if you did.”

“You’re upset," Natasha said.

“No shit," Maggie rolled her eyes standing back up.

“You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Clearly.”

“Then there would be no sport in kicking your ass sparring," Nat said, rising to her feet beside her. She paused, “How does your hand feel?”

“Fine. Numb, which is more or less normal at this point.” Maggie grimaced as she turned to Nat. “This isn’t going to be a metaphor about how time heals all wounds is it, Romanoff?”

“No. This is a 'your left hand will probably never be as strong as it had been, no matter what you do, and you should be aware and take steps not to re-injure your hand' discussion.”

“So the saying is true, what doesn’t kill you leaves you with crippling scars. Great. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” She said, returning to punching the bag as hard as physically possible.

“What’s really going on, Ramirez. You’re not actually this pissed at Steve. You know he was only doing what Becca asked. So what is it?”

Maggie turned to look at Nat. “You a therapist now too?”

“No. But I am good at reading people.”

Maggie scoffed, shaking her head. “I have baggage, all right?”

“Well, you’re letting it distract you. You can’t win a fight if you’re not focused. So what’s this really about?”

“What? Like I’m going to bare my soul to you?”

“If you think it’ll help.”

Maggie said nothing, punching the bag harder. She wanted to hurt someone, wanted to make them feel the pain she was feeling. She wanted to hurt herself just so she could regain a semblance of control in this absolutely fucked situation, but she couldn’t. It wouldn’t make things any better or any easier. Above all, it wouldn’t give her the control that she desperately wanted.

“Alright, let's get in the ring.”

“You just said there was no sport in kicking my ass.”

“You wanna punch someone. Come on, let’s get in the ring.” Natasha said, picking up the spare set of gloves.

“Now you’re mocking me.”

“No. I’m giving you what you want.”

Maggie watched Nat a moment as she taped up her hands and pulled on her gloves. She was being wound up, and then Nat was just going to let her go.

“Fine.” Maggie bit out, climbing into the ring behind Natasha.

“Remember, your opponent in any given circumstance wants to hurt or kill you. Don’t hold back because the other person won’t.”

“So what I hear is that you want me to hit you as hard as I can.”

“I want you to _try_ to hit me as hard as you can, and as a general reminder, you shouldn’t play by the rules. ”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Fine.” They squared up. This felt like a setup. She knew for an absolute fact that she was being set up by Nat, but she wasn’t going to be able to back down now. She’d gotten into the rink, and she was going to leave it unless Nat wanted her to.

They circled one another, feinting to the left and the right. Nat was fast and agile, with the strength, flexibility, and speed of a dancer. Maggie tried to keep her focus, front and forward, and plot the best plan of attack. Still, at the back of her mind, there was the seething, boiling, acidic anger.

And then she was on the floor, in a headlock, Natasha on top of her.

“You’re dead," Nat said flatly, releasing her from the headlock and standing back.

“Thanks for that.” Mags groaned as she climbed back to her feet.

“Again.”

And again Maggie squared up, and again they circled and feinted, and dodged. “You’re distracted," Nat said, as Maggie took a swing, throwing her to the ground.

 “Oof,” she moaned, hoisting herself off the mat.

 “Get up. Again.”

Over and over, it was the same thing, she and Nat would square up, and inevitably Maggie would end up on the mat.

"Okay. What the fuck?” Maggie snapped after being thrown onto the mat for what felt like the millionth time.

“You’re distracted, you’re not focused, and you’re easy to throw on the ground," Nat answered with a shrug, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

“You’re also a super-assassin, spy, and lord knows what else. If you’re going to break me just goddamn break me,” She practically snarled, staggering back up.

“You land a punch, and I’ll stop throwing you down.”

Maggie snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Focus, and you’ll be able to land one.”

“One.” She echoed.

“One," Natasha repeated.

“All right.” She exhaled, squeezing her eyes shut she tried to push everything out of her mind.

Clear her mind. Don’t be distracted. Everything hurt, her whole body hurt, her brain hurt, her eyes hurt, even her soul, it felt, was aching. She wanted to rage and scream at the universe. She wanted to shout from the highest mountains how unfair all of this bullshit was, but that wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t change the fact that Becca was dying, it wouldn’t change that Steve hadn’t told her, it wouldn’t change that she was stuck here until further notice. She could be angry, but she had to let that rage drive her, had to be a cause for focus, not a distraction.

Opening her eyes again, she took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They squared off, starting the same way they had every other time, dodging and feinting and circling. _Don’t play fair._

“You’re dis-”

Maggie lunged, grabbing Natasha by the waist and with her continued momentum, pushed her to the ground. They rolled, struggling momentarily to end up on top. Then, she was pinned, Natasha straddling her waist, both hands pinning her arms down. “Not bad, but you’re never going to be able to do that again, you know," Nat said, blowing a strand of hair out of her face that had fallen from her top knot.

"Well. You said, fight dirty. I figured I’d only get the one shot.” Maggie laughed weakly, trying not to focus on the fact that there was a beautiful, dangerous woman straddling her. “Does that count as landing a punch?”

“You didn’t technically land a punch," Natasha said coyly. “But, you did get me off my feet, so I’ll let it stand.”

“Are you going to let me stand?”

Natasha chuckled, but nodded, removing her gloves from Maggie’s arms, and rising to her feet. Shaking off her gloves, she extended her hand to Maggie, hauling her to her feet. “I know you’re angry, I know that you’re upset, and you have every right to be. But you have to control it, have to harness it to you will, because you can’t afford to let it control you. It’s the difference between life and death.”

Maggie nodded, pulling off her boxing gloves, extended them to Nat.

“I’d take a nice long shower and try to let your muscles rest. Put your left hand on ice too, it’s going to hurt.” Natasha said, collecting the gloves from her. She paused, “and then I’d get to work. You have a lot to do before you go to Argentina.” Then she turned to go.

“Nat.” Maggie stopped her.

"Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

Nat shook her head. “No. Don’t thank me yet. Come back down tomorrow evening, and we’ll work some more on what we started today.”

“All right. Sounds good. Have a good evening then.”

 “You too, Ramirez.”

And then she was gone.

 She sighed, pulling at the tape on her hands, her left hand throbbed. Her whole body was basically going to be one massive bruise in the morning. _Control it, harness it, bend it to your will, because it’s the difference between life and death._

It was hard to imagine anything being the difference between life and death, but stranger things had happened, and hanging out with superheroes absolutely anything was possible. For now, she would use her anger to find Barnes, staying alive was a completely different objective altogether.         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So This is the second of three really difficult chapters. Hang in there, guys. Thank you for sticking with it! Mags really doesn't deserve any of this shit, but she's also REALLY not being very nice to anyone. We're going to get a bit of Nat POV next time! I promise after chapter 11 things lighten up a bit.


	11. We'll Meet Again, Don't Know Where Don't Know When

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> TW: HUGE HUGE TW for Self Harm, blood, and self-mutilation in this chapter, not graphic in detail, but present. Alcohol, disordered eating, and vomit as well.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Sound of Silence by Disturbed, We’ll Meet Again by Johnny Cash, Behind Blue Eyes by Limp Bizkit, Fields of Gold by Eva Cassidy, Within by Daft Punk, I Could Live with Dying Tonight by Emma Lee
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1253302637/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6

_Bucky walked through the front door and was immediately immersed in a hug._

_“_ _Bec? What is? What’s the matter?”_

 _“_ _Tell me it’s not true! Please tell me it’s not true!” Becca practically sobbed as she clung to him._

 _So she_ _’d found out. When he’d received his draft notice, he’d immediately gone to his mother before he told anyone else, even Steve. They’d resolved that they’d tell the family at a meal together so that they could deal with it as a family. Apparently, Steve had let it slip or mother had told everyone. Either way, he'd have to find a way to calm down his younger sister._

 _“_ _Hey, Hey.” He said, gently stroking her head, and doing his best to avoid mussing her expertly styled hair._

_"It is true, isn’t it!” She looked up at him, her face tear-stained._

_"_ _It is.”_

 _She starred in shock, her bottom lip trembling even as she tried her best to put on her brave face._ _“Bucky-” She began, but he cut her off._

 _“_ _Our country needs me Bec, I gotta go," he said. It was the best he could do. “Come on.” He continued after a moment. “Let's go down to the drug store. I’ll buy you a root beer.”_

_"Before dinner?” She stammered._

_“_ _We won’t be gone too long. We’ll make sure to get back in time to help Rachel and Abby set the table.”_

_Becca nodded, wiping her face diligently before collecting her bag and coat._

_They walked in silence for.a block before Becca spoke up._ _“You can’t go Bucky, it’s not fair.”_

_“I_ _’ve been called up. I can’t argue with the U.S. Army.”_

_“_ _But you can, I read that if you can prove-”_

_“It’s a done deal, Becca.” He sighed. He’d tried. Filed every petition, tried every loophole, looked for exemptions or waivers, done everything he could to be considered unfit for service, outside of intentionally failing his physical. He’d tried to prove that he was of greater use to his country here than overseas. “Everyone has to do their part,” He added, lamely, when he couldn’t think of anything else to say_

_“_ _Oh, yes. Abby, Rachel, and I get to grow Victoria gardens, knit socks, and collect scrap while you go and get shot at.”_

_"_ _Bec, if they let the likes of my sisters in the army, the war would be done and over in half the time.” He said, doing his best to fight the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Glancing down at her expression, he cleared his throat._

_“It’s not fair, why do you have to go.”_

_“_ _Someone has to Bec.”_

_“_ _But why does it have to be you?”_

_“_ _Doesn’t matter, because it is.” He wished he had a better answer because then he’d know how to fix this. Funny that, Steve had been trying since Pearl Harbor to enlist and had been rejected repeatedly. Then here he was, the perfect picture of health, three-time welterweight boxing champion, and he was doing everything he could to find a way not to serve. But he couldn’t tell her that. He couldn’t tell her that he was scared. He was her older brother, and he wasn’t a child anymore. These doubts, these fears, they were his to bear, and he would have to bear them alone._

_“_ _I still have training, which will take some time. War is unpredictable, it could be over before I get shipped out.”_

_They arrived at the soda fountain, but now they were dressed differently. She was wearing her favorite pale blue dress, he was wearing his dress uniform. It was his last day stateside._

_“_ _So you’re going to the science EXPO with Bonnie and Connie and Steve tonight?” Becca asked, sitting across from him, drinking her usual root beer._

_“_ _Yeah. But I wanted to take you out one more time before I shipped out.”_

_“_ _You promised Steve you’d write.”_

_There wasn_ _’t a question exactly, but he could tell she was fishing. “I’ll send letters to ma and dad as often as I can as well.”_

_She nodded satisfied by his answer, taking a long draw of her drink, her eyes were red from crying, although she would never admit it to him, and she blinked to keep more from falling._

_“_ _Hey, Bec.” He waited until she looked up at him and met his gaze. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll be back before you know it.”_

 _"_ _How can you be so sure?” She asked, a definite tinge of tears on her voice._

 _“_ _Because I’m a Barnes and I’m your brother.” He winked with a cocky grin. “Now come on, we need to finish our drinks. Steve’s coming over with his camera. He wants to take our picture.”_

 _"_ _Oh, Steven.” She chuckled, rolling her eyes._

_They finished their drinks and walked from the drug store, shoulder to shoulder talking about the local gossip and all the things Becca was going to have to keep him up to date on while he was away._

_As they reached the last block before their parent_ _’s place, she charged ahead, waving and calling to get Steve’s attention. He wanted to call her back, so he could see her face clearly, one last time, but she was already out of earshot and quickly getting further and further away._

He blinked, he’d been daydreaming if that was possible. It was strange really, he hadn’t thought about that last day, those last moments before leaving Brooklyn and now for whatever reason, those memories had been the most present over the past few days.

Perhaps it was because his birthday had come and gone, maybe it was because he was remembering more. Whatever the case, he’d been thinking about those last precious moments before he’d become something other than just James Barnes, when he’d belonged to something other than himself and his family. Perhaps, he’d been thinking more about Becca because she was all that was left of his family, beyond Steve Rogers, and now that he could actually remember anything before 1945 it actually meant something to him.

He’d checked on her shortly after his trip to the Smithsonian on his family, on Bucky Barnes’s family to find that only Rebecca Barnes-Proctor, Barnes’s youngest sister was still alive. He hadn’t dug any further, He hadn’t had the time or resources. It had occurred to him that he could seek her out and that she’d be able to give him answers. He’d even made it as far as Brooklyn before the withdrawal symptoms had kicked in and he’d started north. It would’ve only ended in disaster. Hydra would probably have ambushed him or Steve would’ve caught up with him.

For better or worse, it hadn’t worked out.

Still, he wondered what kind of person Becca had grown up to be. What kind of woman had she become, and how the Barnes family had moved on after he’d disappeared.

He’d promised to write, and he had for a little while up until his first battle. After that, he hadn’t been able to find the words, hadn’t been able to summon the courage to tell them what was really going on, what war was actually like outside of the newsreels. So he’d lied, for a bit, fabricated stories and good things to tell his family back home, until he hadn’t had the energy to do even that. He wasn’t entirely convinced that all of them, or any of them for that matter, had made it back to his folks. He remembered during his time with the howling commandos, Steve had drawn pictures of them and sent them home with the letters. He wondered what happened to those too.

He rose to his feet, pulling on his gloves and jacket. There was no harm in checking up, doing some research. She was, after all, family. It would be informative to know what his sister had done with herself since 1945 and furthermore find out what she was up to now.

He walked out the door and down the street to the library. Logging in to one of the guest computers, he typed in Rebecca Barnes Proctor, Brooklyn NY, USA and hit enter. His stomach dropped when he saw the top hit.

An obituary.

He swallowed hard and clicked on the link. There she was, Rebecca Barnes-Proctor. He printed the article without reading it. He couldn’t do that here. Clearing the browser history and collecting his copy, he charged out into the streets and rushed back to the safe house. Locking the door, he sat down on the floor, spreading the printed sheets out in front of him.

She was gone. At 86 years old, cancer, surrounded by her five children James Martinez-Proctor, Mary, Jenny, Elizabeth, and Stephanie Proctor. Proceed in death by her first husband Gabriel Martinez, her second husband Roger Proctor, her sisters Abigail and Rachel Barnes, and parents Winifred and George Barnes. 'She will be remembered as not just a wife, mother, and grandmother but as an activist.’ It then went on to list her many accomplishments. She’d gone to college, marched with the anti-war movement in the 60s, women’s rights, environmental activism, gay rights. She’d also fostered or adopted over fifty kids.

Setting the paper down, shock melted away, and he could feel grief start to sink in as he sniffled, wiping his nose with his jacket sleeve. While he’d made the world a darker, more brutal place, she’d tried to make it better, tried to make a world filled with love and peace and justice for all.

His chest constricted at the thought and he looked back down at the two photographs. One when she’d been young, her graduation photo from college. He knew that face, that smile. “Oh, Bec.” He reached out to touch the grainy print, his voice shaking. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

He turned to the other photograph, It was a group shot, more recent. They were all wearing 1940s attire, the women in either head wraps or victory rolls, the men in suspenders. It looked like the 4th of July from what he could tell from the spread. The faces were all smiling and bright. Becca sat in the center, surrounded by the massive family she’d accumulated over the years. In one hand, Becca held something clutched to her chest, while the other hand was holding her son’s hand, James. He had a nephew, and nieces, and grand nieces and nephews, and even great-grand nieces and nephews. Becca had named her only son after him.

Did they know about him? About the monster lurking in their family lineage, the skeleton from their not too distant past? They hadn’t mentioned him alive or dead in the obituary. Did Becca know? Had Steve told her what he’d seen her brother become?

 _I’ll be back before you know it._ That’s what he’d said, that’s what he’d told her. Only he hadn’t. He could’ve, he’d had the choice, he could’ve gone to see her, gone to explain, gone to apologize. He could’ve made it back to her, had he tried harder, had he not been afraid, had he not been a coward.

Would she have understood? Would she have forgiven him? Would she have embraced him as her brother? Him? The broken, horrible creature that Hydra had created out of what James Barnes had once been? Or would she have turned away? Repulsed and mortified by the thing he’d become.

He didn’t know, and now he would never know.

He’d let his sister die. He’d let his sister die without saying goodbye, without saying he was sorry, without making amends for all that he had done and all that he had become.

He blinked at the tears that were streaming down his face, stinging his cheeks. He was Bucky Barnes, the man who’d fallen from the train, but he was something else now too. A monster, a zombie, an undead thing who couldn’t die and who destroyed everything he touched. Hydra had kept him alive, and kept him away from his home, his family, his memories, his soul. One by one, his family had died, not knowing his fate, not knowing what had _really_ happened to him, what he had become. Then he’d been given a chance, an opportunity to atone, and he’d turned away, too frightened, too scared, too cowardly to face the judgment of the one person who could grant clemency for the crimes he’d committed against them.

A frantic sort of terror overcame him, coupled with a compulsion he couldn’t fight. He had to fix it, had to undo what Hydra had done to him. He ripped off his gloves, his right hand going to his left shoulder, his fingernails dragging over the skin, digging into the flesh over the metal plate holding the prosthesis in his chest. His skin was hardened by scar tissue but wasn’t half so dense as the metal he could feel just underneath.

 _I have to get it out, I have to get it out._ He would’ve screamed as he dug and clawed at Hydra’s handiwork, but every breath he took felt like agony, and any further exertion would’ve been too much. His mind bent around the singular task, choked by pain and tears, the air felt hot and thick in his lungs, and there was a high pitched buzz in his ears. Yet, he continued, he had to get it out, he had no choice, he had to undo what Hydra had done to him, had to change what he had become.

   He dug and clawed, until he could feel the flesh tear away, blood slick and wet on his fingertips, and then like some switch had been flipped, he could feel the pressure in his skull ease, and the itching sensation just under his skin ceased. The pain was near euphoric as he collapsed into himself and onto the floor as his grief, and his pain gave way to exhaustion.

 

***

 

Rebecca Proctor was dead. Steve had sent Natasha a text. She wasn’t sure what exactly she was supposed to do with that information, but she knew it meant that he wanted her to go and check on Maggie Ramirez.

Steve and Ramirez weren’t on speaking terms at the moment. Ramirez was pissed that Steve had kept Rebecca Proctor’s illness and prognosis from her, and Steve was busy running missions and trying to keep himself together. Which meant that if Steve had sent Nat a text message to announce the death of Rebecca Proctor, then it was likely that Steve had sent Ramirez a similar one. It wasn’t a good move on Steve’s part, but he was away on a mission, and a text was better than nothing. Well, it was until it wasn’t.

 _Why am I concerned?_ That was her first thought. It wasn’t in her nature to be overly invested in people. She’d lived most of her life as an assassin, spy, and saboteur; circumstances, and people came and went, and in order to survive, she’d been able to stay above most of it. Then the Avengers had been formed, and then SHIELD had fallen, and ghosts from her past had started clawing their way out of the red in her ledger and back into her life.

Things had changed, they had to. Different tactics had to be developed and adopted in order to adjust to the new paradigm, a paradigm where she didn’t have to do it alone, and in fact, couldn’t do it alone.

That was how, and why Ramirez had come into her life.

Natasha had been skeptical about Ramirez at first. That was just how she was about people in general, but specifically skeptical about her joining Rogers and Wilson on their mission to track down and bring in Barnes. She’d personally spent considerable time, energy, and resources attempting to track down the Winter Soldier, to little avail. She was intimately familiar with the particular dangers associated with going head to head with the Winter Soldier and Hydra. It was something that could eat you alive if you weren’t careful. Was Steve aware of those dangers? Probably? But was Ramirez? No. Probably not. That was why Natasha had been watching Ramirez, keeping her under surveillance. She justified it as protection, after all, you don’t just walk away if Hydra wants you dead, and Hydra had several reasons to want Magdalene Ramirez dead.

At first, it had appeared Ramirez would be only handling more surface-level stuff. Up until Steve had started letting her handle and access everything Natasha was giving him. Then, he’d complicated matters further by introducing Ramirez to Barnes’s only surviving sibling, Rebecca Barnes-Proctor. Natasha could understand why he’d done it. Steve had simply found someone more willing and able to talk about his friend, whom, up until April of 2016 had widely been believed to be dead. But that was dangerous. It had painted an even bigger target on Ramirez and Rebecca Proctor’s back, something that Rogers, Ramirez, and Proctor had all seemed blissfully unaware.

That is, up until Hydra had nearly grabbed Ramirez back in August. Natasha had prevented Ramirez from being snatched off the street by Hydra, and it was then that she had witnessed Ramirez’s mettle. The woman had been frightened, but stubborn, pushing back against what Steve had told her, pushing back against the limitations that had been put on her. Seeking the truth for a purpose, seeking truth so that eventually she could walk away. Natasha could respect and admire that, and so she’d agreed to help Ramirez find out the information she was looking for, help her cover her tracks, and provide her with a clear point of no return. Then slowly they’d become colleagues, and Natasha would even venture friends of a sort.

Now, well, Nat was invested in Magdalene Ramirez. She was, much to her surprise, rooting for her. Rooting for her to be able to leave after all of this was over. Hoping that she could go back to helping people in her way. Not everyone could be an Avenger, nor should everyone want to be. Ramirez was born to help people or rather born to be around and amongst people. She had a light about her, it was an almost magnetic force drawing people to her light and warmth and _humanity_. She could see it in the way she made Steve and Sam laugh, the way she tried to put on a brave face for all those around her, and the simple fact that she’d gone from running an equine therapy ranch for disabled Veterans to trying to hunt down one of the most lethal people alive without so much as batting an eye. It was one thing Natasha admired about Ramirez, she was so very very connected to her humanity and the humanity of others around her. She wasn’t naive, by any stretch of the imagination, but she was in touch with the basic, fundamental people-ness about people. Natasha was sure it was one of the reasons why she and Rebecca Proctor had gotten along like they had. They were both fundamentally and connected to the humanity of others. Nat couldn’t help but feel a little envious of that ability, she’d had most of her humanity ripped away and replaced with the effective weaponry required to survive the red room. It was also one of the reasons why Natasha was concerned about how Ramirez was taking Becca’s death.

When Ramirez had gotten the news that Becca was dying, she had been beside herself with grief and anger. Understandable. Natasha had told her to harness that to bringing in Barnes. It was a shallow, vain sort of hope that perhaps they could find him and bring him to Becca before she passed. But to Nat’s credit, it had worked. For the last four days, they’d been sparring in the morning, working on translation and decryption on some of the documents Natasha had dug up for her, and then in the evenings cardio, weight lifting and practice down in the shooting gallery. She’d seemed focused and calm, and at the very least starting to get a grip on what was going on. After all, you couldn’t fight if you couldn’t focus.

Then, since Nat had gotten the text from Steve this morning, she hadn’t heard anything out of Ramirez aside from. “I’ll be in the apartment. We’ll try for tomorrow.” Which on instinct Natasha knew wasn’t a good sign.

 Walking down to Ramirez’s apartment, Natasha stopped outside, hesitating.

_Why are you concerned?_

Because Ramirez was alone and shouldn’t be. Because Ramirez had taken on this shitty mission so she could go home, but also so she could reunite families, reunite lovers. Because it was the right thing to do.

Raising her hand to knock, she heard the handle on the other side move. Stepping back, Maggie appeared in the doorway dressed in her workout clothes and gym shoes.

“Hi, Nat.” She managed a half-cocked smiled as she stumbled through the doorway, tripping over her own feet.

Nat caught her by the elbow before she could fall entirely to the floor. “Going somewhere?”

“IwannaIwannapunchsomething.” She explained, her words running together.

Ah. So she’d been drinking. Not unsurprising, all things considered, but the urge to go and punch something while drunk, not a good idea. “Not like that you aren’t," Natasha said gently, guiding her back into the apartment before Ramirez could work up a good protest.

“What? Steve send you to check up on me?” She slurred, anger creasing her expression in dramatic lines.

“He sent me a text about Becca, I had a feeling you’d be upset and came to check up on you," Natasha replied, glancing around. The television was on, which was a first for Ramirez, a telenovela was playing. There were three empty pint-sized cartons of ice cream, an empty extra-large pizza box, and three empty bottles of wine strewn over the coffee table. It hadn’t been like this yesterday when they’d all been here for a briefing, which meant this had transpired in the six or so hours since Steve had texted them.

“Awww. So the assassin who doesn’t care actually _does_ care.” She laughed, a harsh, brittle, tinny little laugh as jerked her arm away from Natasha’s grip. Ramirez turned to face her, and then the smile faded, a momentary look of panic and horror crossed her expression as she went sheet white before throwing up all over Natasha.

“You okay?” She asked Maggie, who was double over, hands on her knees still retching.

 “I—am—so—so—sorry.” Maggie gasped.

“I’d say it serves you right for being a smart ass, but I’m the one covered in vomit.” Nat chuckled gently, taking Maggie’s elbow again. “Come on. Let’s get you to the bathroom.”

“I’m fine. I’m fin-” She didn’t finish as she staggered to the kitchen sink and vomited again.

“Let me get you some water.” Natasha said, pausing, “First, I’m raiding your closet, and throwing these in the wash.” She said motioning to her vomit-covered clothes.

Maggie gave the thumbs up before lowering her head back in the sink.

Natasha could hear the sounds of retching from the bedroom as she pulled off her soiled garments, and selected a pair of leggings, and a soft flannel button-down. Changing, she glanced around the small room. There were a few photographs around, her and Sam and Riley, her and Riley, younger photos of her with who Natasha assumed was her brother. There was the Virgin of Guadalupe Statue sitting by the bedside, draped with a rosary and a dog tag. Everything else in the room was devoid of personal effects, aside from the clothing. Ramirez really had lost everything in the fire, and now she’d lost again.

Tossing the clothes in the washing machine, she walked back out to the kitchen to find the water running and Maggie drinking directly from the tap, swishing the water and spitting to get the taste out of her mouth. “Feeling any better?”

Maggie’s eyes darted up, shooting her a 'look’ before returning her focus to the sink. Eventually, she turned off the water and sat up. “I am sorry I vomited on you.”

 “I’ve had worse. Let’s get you somewhere for you to lie down.” Natasha said, slowly approaching her.

Maggie flinched as Natasha reached for her, recoiling. “I’m fine. Nat. Just a bit too much to drink,” She mumbled, a slight slur in her words as she started toward the couch.

Nat grabbed a two two-liter bottles of water from the fridge and followed behind her, scooping up Ramirez’s phones and headphones, set them on the coffee table. “Here, try to drink some water. It’ll help you feel better.” She extended one of the bottles to Ramirez.

 “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“The way I remember it, you threw up on me, and now I’m waiting for my clothes to finish washing and drying," Nat answered, pausing, she looked over at Maggie who was sipping water slowly from the bottle staring blankly at the T.V. Then she turned to the telenovela. “You seen this one before?” Nat inquired hesitantly.

“My mother and my Abuela used to watch them, they’d be on when I’d come home from school when I was little.” She said absently. “They’d always have mini burritos waiting for my brother for and me after school snacks before we sat down to do homework. It was one of the many reasons I learned and retained Spanish. I wanted to know what it was the grownups were watching, and be able to participate.” She shook her head, blinking back tears.

“You must miss them quite a bit," Natasha replied.

“It just reminds me of better times, simpler times.” Maggie shook her head. “You know it’s funny, when someone died in my family, growing up I mean, their photograph would go up on the family ofrenda almost as soon as my Abuela found out. When that first October after their passing came around, there’d be a huge ordeal about selecting or changing the photograph. It was something that I continued with, growing up and moving out, and creating an ofrenda of my own.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t even _have_ a photograph of Becca. Not that I’m sure she or Barnes would want her photograph on my Ofrenda. I’m not sure. I’m not sure what the Jewish faith has to say about being on a Catholic shrine.” Maggie swiped at the tears that had started streaming down her face.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, and I’m sure Barnes wouldn’t mind either," Nat said. “I think they’d be touched and honored that you think enough of Becca to put her on your ofrenda.”

Maggie exhaled with a strangled sigh. “I...I...just feel like I failed her. Like I failed them both.”

“You didn’t fail them.” _There wasn’t any way you were going to find him in time._ She would’ve added, but it wouldn’t have had the desired effect, and Ramirez was already beating herself up over something she had little to no control over.

Natasha could feel the pain, the anger, the frustration, and the outright grief coming off of Ramirez in waves. She could feel within herself a sort of sadness, a loss that she couldn’t quite put a name to. She knew how much Becca meant to Mags, but she also knew how important Becca had been to James. He hadn’t remembered her, not by name, but he would sometimes talk about how he had a feeling he had family out there and that perhaps he might get to see them someday.

Regret. That was perhaps the word she was looking for. Regret that she’d never been able to find the time to tell Becca what James had meant to her, and what James had remembered, even in the darkest of days. Regret that she’d never been able to become as close as Ramirez had gotten with Becca, never partaken in the bond of friendship and family that Ramirez had created in the few short months since she’d arrived. But that hadn’t been her place, Natasha had decided. Becca didn’t need to know that Natasha had known her brother as the Winter Soldier. Didn’t need to know what he had done, the atrocities they had committed together in the name of Hydra. No one needed to know. It was one of the many reasons that she hadn’t told Steve how and why she knew where to dig up files on the Winter Soldier, and since Steve had never point blanked asked, she didn’t necessarily feel inclined to explain.

Yet, sitting beside Maggie, as she grieved, Natasha could feel a grief of her own, for all that she had lost, and for all that might be lost if they could never find James.

Natasha glanced over at Ramirez who was dozing off, her eyes puffy and red, her gaze unfocused her right hand was wrapped around the water bottle, her left fiddling with the chain she wore around her neck, strung with two golden bands.

"We have what we have when we have it,” Nat said, slowly putting her hand Ramirez’s shoulder. “It’s not enough, it’s never enough, but it’s all we have.”

Putting her hand on Natasha’s, Ramirez nodded wordlessly.

Nothing else needed to be said, nothing else could be said.

She wanted Ramirez to succeed, wanted Ramirez to get to be able to go home, be able to continue her work, but most importantly, Natasha wanted Ramirez to survive all of it. That was what she had been taught, survival, and so that’s what she’d help Ramirez to do, whatever that meant, whatever that entailed, whatever Ramirez might require. It was the least Natasha could do, considering all that Ramirez had lost in a battle where she only knew the half of it, and that from what Natasha could see had only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all still with me? Everyone take a deep breath. This is the last chapter like this. I'm so sorry (throw rotten fruit I deserve it). We're over halfway done with the fic and it only picks up from here! I look forward to hearing what you think.


	12. A Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Pretty Woman by Roy Orbison, Ain’t Nobody’s Business if I Do by Billie Holliday, Alone Together by Ray Anthony, Leaving on a Jet Plane by John Denver
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1253302637/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6

 It had been almost a month since Becca had passed away. While Maggie wasn’t sure about everyone else, but for her, everything was going at a strange fast-slow pace. Things were happening at an accelerated rate, while at the same time, it felt like nothing was happening at all. Steve hadn’t attended Becca’s funeral, he’d argued his presence would’ve turned the entire thing into a media circus, which felt wholly and utterly unfair to both him and the family. Maggie, for her part, had decided to let the family grieve and mourn together without her interference. She’d only known Becca a few months, it didn’t seem right to encroach. She and Steve hadn’t spoken.

Mostly, they’d been busy, and it hadn’t been exactly conducive to them talking out their feelings, and working through what had transpired. Maggie’s anger had melted away into grief, and now, over a month later, a feeling a numb. Maggie hadn’t left the tower. Unfortunately, they’d had to delay their trip to Argentina. It had been for the best, as it had given Maggie a chance to prepare better, plot out their route, where they were going to stay, and to brush up on her Spanish. The delay had also allowed her and Romanoff additional time to work through the more technical and complicated bits of Russian translation. They had started getting into medical documents, which came with ethical questions all of their own. At what point did the search for the Winter Soldier become too personal? When did she know much? And what was she supposed to do with the information she found. Those were questions to be answered another day, for now, she just put everything in her journals, before filing or destroying the documents depending.

While she and Steve hadn’t spoken, she hadn’t seen much of Sam either. Sam had been flying all over the world chasing down and following up on leads that didn’t involve hiking into remote jungles, while Steve, Nat, and the rest of the Avengers had been kicking down Hydra’s front door and busting up cells all over the world. They had allegedly “beaten” Hydra, mopping up the last of their bases in Sokovia, and now Stark was throwing a party in celebration. It was a rare moment for the Avengers and afflicted gang to all be together before She and Sam would pack up and head for the airport for their flight to Argentina.

For her part, Maggie didn’t feel much like celebrating. It didn’t exactly feel like Hydra had been “beaten” when she still wasn’t able to go home, and the thought of getting dressed up and paraded around one of Stark’s goddamn parties didn’t fill her with the warm fuzzies.

 “Yes, come in. It’s unlocked.” She called at the knock at the door.

“How many times have I told you not to keep your door unlocked.” Natasha’s voice rang out as she entered the apartment, accompanied by the click of heels.

"I’m still waiting for that Hydra assassin to come and snatch me up in my sleep if I’m being honest," Maggie answered, sitting up from where she’d been laying on the couch to see Natasha approach. Nat was wearing a beautiful a-line black dress with a contrasting white collar and sleeves and carrying a garment bag and a pair of heels.

“All packed up for Argentina?” Natasha asked.

“More or less.” Maggie shrugged

“Good. Put these on.” Natasha tossed first the garment bag and then the heels on top of her recumbent form.

“Hey. Hey. You could put an eye out with those things.” Maggie protested, scrabbling up into a sitting position, her hands up defensively to protect her face.

“I’ve done more with less. Come on, get changed, or haven’t you heard there’s a party going on.”

“I heard. And I thought I told Sam that I wasn’t going.”

“I heard you tell Sam and Steve at the briefing that you’d think about it. And I know you’re just doing this to avoid talking to Steve in a casual setting.”

“I have a long few days ahead of me. Excuse me for not wanting to be out among the masses.”

“When was the last time you saw another living person outside of our immediate cell of operatives.”

“I ran into Dr. Banner the other day while I was up in the main kitchen, making tea," Maggie replied quickly. “And I saw Barton this morning down in the shooting gallery.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, pulling her phone from an inner pocket of her dress.

“What are you doing?” Maggie asked, suspiciously.

“Texting Sam," Natasha replied.

Maggie snorted, pushing the hair out of her from her face. “He’s not the boss of me.”

“No. Just letting him know that since you’ve failed to listen to reason, we might have to haul you bodily out of the apartment.”

“What? Is Steve your enforcer now? Let me know how that goes for you.”

“Our thought was Thor wouldn’t have any qualms about hauling you over his shoulder to engage in the merriment.” Natasha paused, her thumb hovering over the send key.

Maggie sat perfectly still, trying to read Natasha’s expression, every flicker, every twitch, and there was nothing, nada, zilch, zero. Was she bluffing? How could she tell? Did Maggie really wanna risk that? “Okay okay, fine!” Maggie rushed at the slightest inclination of a twitch of Natasha’s thumb.

A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she slipped the phone back into the concealed pocket. “Everything should fit,” She commented as Maggie unzipped the hanging bag.

“Not sure if I should be flattered or horrified. Does the hanging bag double as a body bag?” Maggie commented, wryly.

“In my experience, every bag can be a bodybag if you try hard enough.”

Maggie stopped and looked up, again searching for some clue. “I’d ask if you’re kidding, but I really don’t want to know.” She shook her head, turning her attention to her outfit for the evening.

Natasha had picked out a silky blue jumpsuit, a v-neck with a conservative back allowing for a bra to be worn, but could also be considered revealing without actually exposing. The shoes were a pair of sensible black t-strap heels. “I also have accessories.”

“Cool.” Maggie managed. She wasn’t getting out of this. Sam and apparently Natasha were both in a mood, and so at the risk of being hauled bodily from the apartment by any number of superheroes, she’d deal. “Well. If we’re going to “Pretty Woman” this, we should get going.” She sighed, resigned to her fate, rose to her feet, and started back toward the bedroom, hanging bag and shoes in hand.

“You looking forward to Argentina?” Natasha asked following behind.

“Cautiously optimistic, but simultaneously very very wary about the whole thing. I don’t think hiking through the jungle looking for a former Hydra Nazi science research lab is exactly going to be a bundle of laughs, but it’ll be a nice change of scenery.”

“That’s a good place to be with anything like this," Natasha answered, graciously turning around as Maggie stripped off her baggy t-shirt and sweat pants.

Fortunately, she’d just showered and washed her hair, and the outfit didn’t require special undergarments. Slipping on the jumpsuit, Maggie found it fit perfectly, fitting just above her ankles, which worked out since she hadn’t shaved anything above her ankles in months. Likewise, the mini sleeves meant her underarms weren’t exposed, sparing everyone from her unshaved pits. “Okay. I’m dressed you can turn around.”

“Cute," Natasha said. “Accessories are in the hanging bag.

“Thanks," Maggie said flatly, retrieving the hanging bag and fishing through the zipper pockets

 “I can help you with your hair and makeup too.”

Maggie stopped and looked over at Natasha. Opening and closing her mouth, Maggie sighed before continuing. “You’re being awfully nice.”

“You still sound surprised.”

“Do I? I mean. I suppose I’m wondering what the catch is.”

“Since, I’m dragging you out of your fortress of solitude to socialize with people you may or may not get along with. I figured I’d make this as painless as possible.”

“I’m more of a pull the bandaid off quick type of gal,' and anyway, you don’t have to buy my friendship.”

“Okay. That makes sense.” Natasha nodded.

Maggie starred. Had she just hurt Natasha Romanoff’s feelings? Romanoff had been nothing but nice and now? Maggie was being an asshole, pushing her away, just like she pushed everyone else. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it.” She rushed, “I just don’t want you to feel obligated.”

Natasha nodded again before she spoke, “I don’t have many friends who are women. In my previous line of work...well it didn’t work out well for anyone who was. Now- now that I’m free of that, I enjoy being able to share things with my women colleagues and friends that I can’t with my teammates or the men in my life.” She cracked a small, almost fragile smile. “It’s not an obligation to be your friend.”

There was a tremendous sadness and exhaustion to Natasha’s words, and Maggie wanted to reach out, and touch Natasha on the shoulder, find a way to comfort the other woman. Instead, she just returned the smile and extended the necklace, and lipstick toward her, “I’m going to need help with the clasp on the necklace, and I haven’t worn lipstick in literal years. I’d be tremendously thankful for your help.”

“I can do that, and help you with your hair. You’re not leaving it like that.” Natasha replied.

“I appreciate it.”

“Now, let's get you set up in front of the mirror.”

Maggie obliged wordlessly, watching as Natasha first clasped the necklace before removing the hair tie holding the messy bun Maggie had put her hair in. She worked the long dark tresses into a single french braid before adding in ornamental bobby-pins that Sam had bought her for Christmas.

For her part, Maggie hadn’t done her hair up in a while. She _could_ do her hair up, it was just a pain in the ass, and often not worth the time and effort. So watching her hair transform under Natasha’s deft hands felt magical. Quickly and proficiently braiding her hair, Natasha then moved to makeup, finishing with the lipstick before backing away so Maggie could see her reflection.

“Well, there’s absolutely no way I can get out of going, now.” She commented, glancing up at Natasha with a smirk.

“Come on. It won’t be so bad.” Natasha said, offering Maggie her arm.

Maggie took it, also collecting her keys and cards, slipping them into the deep pockets of her jumpsuit, as they walked from the apartment and to the elevator.

The party was in full swing when they stepped off the elevator, and Maggie could feel her heart race. She hadn’t been near this many people all at once in a very very long time, and now she remembered why. Her eyes scanned the large room and plotted out the best escape route. Fortunately Stark had expressly prohibited pop-top beverages, and everyone was drinking out of bottles, but she tensed at the sound of a popping champagne cork. “Hey, you’re alright.” Nat murmured gently into her ear.

Maggie nodded mutely, allowing Natasha to guide her over to the bar where Sam was waiting with a glass and a shot glass. “Gin and Tonic, and a double shot of Cuervo with a lime.” Sam commented sliding the G n’ T over to Natasha and the Cuervo with a lime wedge toward Maggie as she climbed up on the barstool.

“You know me so well.” She drawled, before licking her hand and pouring salt on the moist patch of skin.

“Thanks for the drink, Sam," Nat said, grabbing the glass off the counter. “I’ll be back in a few, have some people I need to chat with.” She turned to Maggie, “You look gorgeous, by the way. That color blue with that color red really suits you.”

"Th-Thanks.” Maggie stammered as Natasha walked away.

Sam was starring, glancing between the retreating form of Romanoff and her in disbelief. “What is going on between you two?”

“You know, we sit around and paint one another’s nails, gossip, have pillow fights in our lingerie. The usual girl stuff.” Maggie replied sarcastically before throwing back the shot of Cuervo and sucking on the line. Amazingly the lipstick remained intact.

“Not what I meant," Sam said.

"Oh, are you asking if I’ve found a superhero squeeze of my own?” Maggie raised an eyebrow.

“No.” Sam shook his head, “And actually, now that you’ve said that, I _really_ don’t want to know.”

Maggie snorted, shaking her head. “You’re funny, Sam.” She paused, trying to formulate the next sentence carefully. “We’re friends. She’s looking out for me. It’s nice. I don’t know exactly what I have to offer in a friendship or any kind of relationship at the moment, but it is nice to have her around.” Maggie concluded, glancing over at Sam.

She wasn’t about to tell him they’d been decoding top secret Hydra Files, or that Natasha was teaching her to fight and drive and shoot. She wasn’t going to tell Sam any of that, not right now at the very least. It was hypocritical, she realized, to withhold information from Sam, particularly after the fuss she’d made with Steve. However, Maggie reasoned, that this had nothing to do with Sam and so, therefore, it wasn’t the same thing at all.

Sam nodded, skeptically, but took a sip of his drink.

“Oh. I like this song.” She commented. She didn’t actually recognize the song, but it was enough of a comment to steer the conversation away from her and into safer territory.

“Let's dance," Sam said, throwing back the rest of his drink, stepped down from the barstool, and extended his hand to her.

“You hate dancing. And you’re terrible at it.”

“But you don’t, and I know you’ll keep me from stepping on your toes," Sam said. “Come on. For old time’s sake if nothing else.”

Maggie rolled her eyes but nodded in acquiescence as she hopped down from the barstool and took Sam’s hand, watching the faces that passed. She had been here almost a year and recognized virtually no one. Sure she’d run into some people in the hallways, but otherwise, her apartment was a self-contained fortress of solitude where she reigned as the one true supreme monarch.

“What are you thinking about?” Sam asked as they started dancing. The song was slow, and so they moved with ease around the dance floor.

 “Oh. My fortress of solitude.” She answered, honestly.

 “Sounds like fun. What are you thinking of buying some property in Antarctica? I’m sure Stark could help you out there.”

“Well, we are going to be in Argentina. It wouldn’t be too far of a jaunt if we wanted to make a runner to scout out prime “freeze my ass off” real estate.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, I never could figure out why Superman decided to set up shop in the frozen middle of nowhere.”

“I couldn’t either, but I figure it’s because we’re two dumbass kids from the south,” She smiled. It was nice to hear Sam chuckle. Two dumbass kids from the south, she couldn’t help but chuckle at that as well. She’d lived most of her life in Texas, up until the time she met and fell in love with Riley. Sam had been born and partially raised in New Orleans before his family had moved to Virginia. Yet they’d both been willing to move to the cold middle of nowhere upstate New York for Riley.

"So what do you think? Fortress of solitude somewhere warm? We thinkin' the Bahamas?” Sam asked, pulling her from her thoughts

“Somewhere warm, but not on the coast. Too many tourists.”

"So what? Africa? Asia?”

“I’ve never been to either, so I wouldn’t mind the opportunity if given a chance.” She said.

“It sounds nice.”

“It does,” Maggie agreed.

“I’m glad you came. It’s nice to see you out of the apartment, amongst people.” Sam commented after a moment. “And you do look amazing, by the way. Romanoff does know how to pick out clothes.”

“She certainly has an eye for details," Maggie said distantly, as she scanned the dance floor.

They passed the rest of the song in silence, both of them in a time and place far away. It had been forever since she’d danced, and Sam, while boasting two left feet, was actually an outstanding leader and did his best not to step on toes, which he managed with about 80% success.

“Come on.” Sam said, as the song ended, “let's get you back to the bar.”

And then, Maggie’s stomach dropped. Nat’s disappearance as soon as she’d made it to the party, and Sam’s distraction of dancing despite the well-known fact that he _hated_ dancing. “Why do I feel like this is a setup?” Maggie asked, glancing up at him as he walked her back toward the bar, with a gentle but firm hand.

Sam didn’t have a chance to answer as the bar came into view, and there standing at the counter was Steve and Natasha, chatting amiably. “Because it is a setup.” She practically moaned.

“You two are going to have to kiss and make up sooner or later. Besides, it’s a party.” Sam said.

“We’re not fighting, this isn’t a fight. We’re keeping our work relationship professional. And I really have no idea what you mean by 'besides it’s a party,’ Samuel Wilson,” She hissed.

“Ramirez.” Steve nodded politely, his expression going grave at their approach.

“Hey Steve,” She sighed glancing up at him as she slid onto a barstool beside him.

"Can I get you something to drink?” He asked uncertainly.

Maggie glanced at Natasha and Sam sourly as they moved further down the bar, just out of earshot, but not entirely out of range. “Do they _really_ think we’re going to fight each other here?” She asked blandly.

“Well. I don’t think we’ve inspired much confidence recently for them to leave us alone entirely.”

“I think that’s fair.” She paused. “In that case, I’ll have a rum and coke with a slice of lime.”

Steve ordered, and they sat in silence a moment while Maggie waited for her drink.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk to Steve. It was that they collectively didn’t have the time to unpack all of the shit necessary to deal with what had happened. Furthermore, she didn’t really wanna trouble him with her baggage when he had his own shit to unpack and deal with at the moment.

"You’ve been busy," Maggie commented as her drink arrived.

“Moping up the last of Hydra and tracking down Loki’s scepter? Honestly? I’d rather be going to Argentina.” Steve said with a weary sigh.

 _Focused on Bucky._ She couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t mentioned that, but it was just under the surface, for anyone who was listening and knew what to listen for. “Sam and I were talking about finding some real estate in Antarctica for a Fortress of Solitude. Wanna go halvesies?” Maggie said.

Steve looked at her, browned furrowed.

 “Superman? Fortress of solitude? Somewhere to get away to think. Though I think Superman’s was in the Arctic.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ve had more than my fair share of the cold.”

“I agree. Somewhere warm, Asia or Africa is what I told Sam.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll keep you posted if we find anything.” Maggie chuckled, taking a sip of her drink.

There was a long pause, and Maggie could feel Steve intake a long breath as he prepared to say his piece.

“James Martinez-Proctor reached out to me a few days ago, had a couple of things he wanted to give me, and wanted me to give you this.” He said, removing a folded envelope from his pant’s pocket, set it on the bar next to her right elbow. “He said that Becca wanted you to have it, but they didn’t have enough time to get it to you before she passed.”

Maggie looked down. The envelope had been heavily handled, she could see that from all the folds and lines creasing the surface. There was also a very distinctive lump in the paper, indicating that there was something, aside from a letter, nestled inside. What could be in it, she didn’t know, but she could feel a lump form in her throat. Becca and Becca’s family had thought enough of her to send her something.

“I wanted to deliver it to you, personally. So you knew I wasn’t avoiding you.”

So he was learning. “Thank you, Steve,” She said, as she took the envelope off the bar top and slid it in her pocket. “And please send Mr. Martinez-Proctor my regards and thanks as well.”

“Of course.” Steve nodded.

Maggie paused, thinking of Becca’s words. _You don’t have to look after him, but remind him there is a life after all of this Captain America bullshit._ She wasn’t ready, not yet. She could barely look the man in the face right now. But Becca’s words still burned like a flame, asking her to protect Steve from himself.

 “Are you enjoying the party?” Maggie asked, uncertainly.

“Yeah. It’s nice seeing everyone. Are you?”

“Ummm.” She glanced around. “Yeah? Not a huge fan of crowds. But I guess it’s nice being out of the apartment and away from work for a little bit.”

“If you don’t mind. I actually have some people I’d like you to meet.” He said slowly.

“Who?” Maggie asked, warily.

“Some friends of mine," Steve said as he rose from his seat.

"Friends,” she echoed flatly.

“Some veterans.” Steve amended, extending a hand to help her down from the barstool.

She glanced between him and his hand skeptically.

“I know it would mean a lot to them," Steve said innocently, his big blue eyes round and sincere.

 _That bastard._ There was a reason that people would follow him into the jaws of hell and back again, and now she’d just experienced it first hand.

“All right. But you know Sam, and I are going to have to get out of here soon. We do have a mission to take care of still.” She relented, letting Steve help her down.

“You have about two hours until you have to leave," Steve said, as he led through the party. “I am aware of your itinerary.”

Maggie glanced back at Sam, who was trailing behind them now, and gave him a 'do you know what’s going on?’ Look. He shrugged a big shit-eating grin on his face, like the unhelpful asshole he was.

Returning her focus to where she was going, Maggie found that Steve was leading her toward, Thor, the literal honest to god God of Thunder, who surrounded by a group of Veterans, in the middle of an animated retelling of one of his many adventures.

“Steven. Samuel.” Thor nodded in greeting as he wrapped up his story.

“Thor," Steve said. '"Gentlemen” he addressed the veterans. “I’ll like to introduce you to a friend of mine. Ignacia Ramirez.”

“My friends call me Maggie," Maggie interjected before anyone could get into their heads to call her Nacha. THAT was her grandmother’s name, and she really didn’t want to deal with any tittering from Sam when he saw her annoyance.

Glancing around, she realized that quite a few of them were looking at her with some interest. “What is a nice girl like you hanging out with these two?” One of them asked in Spanish with a wink.

 _Oh God._ Maggie hesitated as she realized that she had the full attention of about half a dozen men with the countenance and demeanor of her grandfather. “Oh. Making sure they don’t get into too much trouble.” She answered in Spanish with a smile.

“Your Spanish isn’t bad.” Another of the men chimed in also in Spanish. “Where are you from?”

“Not bad?” She echoed in mock hurt, “I’m from Texas!”

There was laughter followed by a cascade of murmurs of approval. Then the pocketbooks came out. She tensed before she realized they were all removing photos of their daughters, granddaughters, and even great-granddaughters. A few of them even had old snapshots of their wives. And they’d started bickering about who’s was better looking. _Oh, Steve._ Maggie wasn’t sure if she wanted to throttle the man or give him a kiss, either way, it was a marked improvement from how she’d felt only a few hours before.

“I’ll leave you to it," Steve said with a smile.

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Bastard.” She muttered still in Spanish.

This earned a series of laughs from the group. Maggie settled down with her drink, while the men monopolized the evening talking about their wives, many of whom had passed away, and their children and assorted grandkids and great-grandkids. They didn’t ask many personal questions, which Maggie was very thankful for. Mostly they were glad to be able to converse with someone in their native language, and with (as some of them had so eloquently put it) someone as beautiful as she was. She found that she was laughing by the end of it, smiling easier than she had been in well over a month. For a moment it felt that the fog of depression had lifted, or at the very least lifted, and she could breathe, full chested, without feeling like she was choking back cheers or stifling down a panic attack. She was back among her people, the reason she'd been running an equine therapy ranch in the first place.

 “Sorry gentlemen’s but I’m afraid I have to take Ms. Ramirez from you," Sam announced, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Maggie immediately felt the sharp twinge of anxiety twist in her stomach. She looked up at the Sam, who was smiling warmly, amidst the chorus of complaints from her audience. “I’m sorry. Thank you for a lovely evening.” She said as she rose to her feet. “Goodnight! Thank you!”

“It’s good to see you laughing again,” Sam murmured as they walked away and toward where Steve and Nat were waiting for them.

“Well. That was a one-time thing, okay? You can fully expect grouchy, depressed, angry Mags back for the duration.”

“You guys heading out then?” Nat asked.

“Yeah. Have to get the airport and all that.” Sam nodded.

“Be safe," Steve said, immersing Sam in a hug before they exchanged a chaste peck.

“You too, Steve," Sam replied softly as they parted.

Maggie turned to Nat, “Do you think we should kiss?”

 “I mean if you want?” Nat smirked.

“Thanks for that Mags.” Sam rolled his eyes.

Maggie stuck her tongue out but turned to Steve, who had turned to face her squarely. “Thank you, Maggie, for coming down to the party. I hope that you enjoyed yourself at least a little bit.”

“I did. Thank you, Steve.” Maggie went up on tiptoes giving him a brief hug. "We'll have to talk when I get back."

"Agreed," he nodded before they parted.

Maggie turned back to Nat, “Thank you, for the fashion help, it was a real save.”

“Any time.”

“Be safe. And don’t do anything stupid until we get back stateside.” Maggie gave both Natasha and Steve another round of quick hugs before Sam took her by the elbow.

“Come on, we gotta grab our bags and change.” He said, not quite urgently but with enough of an edge to know that they were going to miss their plane if they lingered any longer.

“Let us know when you make it to Buenos Ares," Steve called after them.

 “Will do!” Maggie waved. “Have a good rest of your evening!”

Against all the odds it had been a quiet evening, and she hoped that it would remain a quiet evening as they traveled to Argentina and to parts unknown. Turning one last time before they disappeared out of sight, Natasha waved with a smile before she guided Steve away and back to the main room beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are Sam and Mags going to find in Argentina? How are they going to react to the whole Sokovia SNAFU? Find out next time!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed! I love Nat and Mags's friendship! Love to hear what ya'll are thinking as this thing progresses!
> 
> As always! Happy Reading!


	13. In The Belly of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> TW: implied medical torture, medical torture, medical trauma, swearing, lots and lots of swearing
> 
> Recommended Listening: Run Through the Jungle by Creedence Clearwater Revival, Sympathy for the Devil by Rolling Stones, Two Against One (feat. Jack White) by Danger Mouse &Daniele Luppi, Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1253302637/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6

They made it to Buenos Ares and to their hotel without incident, and without much in the way of conversation, Maggie threw herself into bed. It had been a long 11-hour plane ride, and she hadn’t been sleeping well to begin with, so she relished the thought of sleeping for a few hours in a comfortable bed before they marched out into the jungle where she’d be sleeping in a hammock instead. However, instead of a nap, she found herself tossing and turning, drifting in and out, vaguely aware that Sam taking in low, hushed tones on the telephone on the other side of the suite.

“Everything alright?” she mumbled as Sam walked back to the bedroom area.

“Stark created murder bots apparently," Sam said, running his hands over his head as he sat down on the opposite side of the bed.

“What the fuck?” Maggie struggled into a seated position.

“Yeah. Destroyed a whole bunch of stuff, including Jarvis.”

“Shit. Is everyone alright?”

“At the moment, yes. Steve just called to make sure we were alright and to let us know it might be a good idea to stay off the grid for a few days while they fix this.” Sam paused, “He wanted to double-check that all your stuff on Barnes is either backed up or hard copy.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t trust Stark with that information. It’s all in my journal or hard copy locked away.” She replied.

“Yeah, that’s what I told him.” Sam sighed, moving to remove his shoes, and stretched out on the bed.

“You okay?” Maggie asked.

“Just worried is all.”

“Do we need to fly back to New York? Is this an all hands on deck situation? What’s the contingency here?” She searched Sam’s expression as he closed his eyes, putting hands behind his head, a picture of total ease. However, by the slight grit in his jaw, Maggie could tell that the cogwheels were turning just below the surface.

“Steve wants us to say put and follow up on your lead.” He said after a brief pause. “And to be careful. We’re on our own out here.”

Maggie’s stomach turned. She hadn’t thought about that. The idea had crossed her mind. They were headed into dangerous territory, they were headed to a former Hydra base, anything could happen, but in everything they had planned in all the briefing and pre-mission discussions, it ultimately came down to they had Steve and Nat watching their six, always had the Avengers just in case things went sideways. Now, apparently, that wasn’t the case.

“Having second thoughts?” Sam commented as if reading her mind.

“No. Of course not.” She shook her head, brusquely. “Thinking through our options and contingencies.”

“So, that would be a yes?”

Maggie snorted, laying back down on the bed, she rolled over to face Sam.

Barnes had been on the run for over a damn year, and they were unlikely to come across anything earth-shattering in this Hydra base. This was, at the very best, a wild goose chase, but at the time they’d planned the Argentina trip anything had seemed better than sitting around the Tower waiting around for Becca to die. Now, well, it seemed stupid that they were planning on climbing through the Argentine jungles in the hopes of finding something about the Winter Soldier, who was in all likelihood in the former Soviet Bloc. And now there were murder bots.

“This is old intel, Sammie. If you wanna go back to help Steve and Nat and the others, just say the word.” Maggie said, adjusting her position on the bed.

Sam shook his head. “I’m not an Avenger, and I personally don’t wanna get involved in Stark’s bullshit. I’m sure if Steve wanted my help, he would’ve said so.”

“Yeah. He’s good about that.” Maggie agreed. There was a long silence as both of them silently sorted through their thoughts and the next immediate action. She chuckled after a moment. “I tell that ass hole to not do anything stupid, and less than 24 hours later he calls to let us know that he’s fighting murder bots.”

“That’s hardly his fault," Sam said.

“Fair, fair.” She nodded. “Still, begs the question, can you Samuel Wilson stymie Steve Roger’s stupid bullshit?”

“Further study required.” Sam sighed, rubbing his face. “Damn it.”

Maggie frowned. This wasn’t like Sam at all. “Okay, Sammie. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Sam. That’s not at all convincing.”

He sighed. “Mags, am I Steve’s rebound man?”

“What?” Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Like what you’re just a place holder until we find Barnes?”

“Yeah.”

Maggie scooted closer, reaching her hand out to touch the top of Sam’s head. “Was I a place holder for you with Riley?” She asked so softly that Maggie wasn’t sure if Sam had heard her at all.

There was a long silence, and Maggie was almost convinced Sam had fallen asleep.

“That was different Mags," Sam said slowly after a long moment. “You and I weren’t brainwashed super-soldiers, for starters.”

Maggie chuckled, “That would’ve made things interesting.”

“What I’m saying is, this isn’t the era of ‘Don’t ask don’t tell’ and it isn’t the 1940s anymore. Things are different, different for him, different for me. It’s hard to know where I stand with the guy.” Sam sighed.

Maggie nodded. When she and Riley had first started dating, Maggie had joked, albeit lovingly, that she was Riley and Sam’s beard. It wasn’t until much later that she realized how true that was. If anyone had found out how close Riley and his wingman really were, things would’ve ended badly for everyone. Maggie had served as a buffer for suspicion, while being romantically engaged with both Riley and other partners (women, men, and everyone in between). It wasn’t until they’d started getting serious that Riley and Sam sat her down to discuss the precise nature of their relationship and how any plans for the future would be shaped by that. Maggie loved Riley and adored Sam, and so the arrangement had been beneficial and amicable.

How exactly a triad would work with Sam, Steve, and the ever-elusive Bucky Barnes remained to be seen. Would Barnes be interested in something like that? Would Rogers? Becca had made mention that she’d always assumed that the boys would come as a package set when and if they ever decided to settle down. Not everyone was interested in polyamory, which was understandable. It was challenging to make things work between two people, never mind adding in the X factor of trying to work things out between another unknown party.

“I don’t think you’re a stand-in for Barnes. You, Samuel Wilson, are a delight and from what I could see from Riley’s perspective a loving and doting partner. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” Maggie said.

“But?”

“Oh, there isn’t a “but,” that’s the way I feel about you. And that if Steve can’t see that you’re a catch he’s the biggest dumbass I’ve ever known.”

Sam snorted. “I know that’s not _all_ you think about me.”

She paused, thinking over the past year, over the past three years now since Riley had passed away. Their relationship hadn’t been a good one. He’d all but disappeared on her prior to the miraculous rescue, and she hadn’t exactly been the most pleasant person to get along with since she’d joined the manhunt for James Barnes and the Winter Soldier. They’d both been grieving and hurting and trying to make sense of the crazy new world they’d found themselves in. It was a world that Sam had entered willingly, and one that Mags had been dragged into, kicking and screaming, a world that she wasn’t sure she wanted to be apart of.

_There might not be a way out anymore._

She’d been trying to avoid that thought, but it plagued her late at night when she should be sleeping. Sam had a choice, Sam could walk away any time he wanted, and for whatever reason, he decided to stay. Maggie would have to see this through to the end, whatever the end may be. That, or find some way to get out before she became more collateral damage to the messy world of spies, gods, heroes, and super-soldiers.

“You still with me, Mags?” Sam asked softly, his voice low and rumbling in his chest.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Maggie sighed. “Thank you, Sammie.”

“For?”

“Believing in me? Supporting me on this wild goose chase.”

“I trust you.”

“That’s awfully kind of you.”

Sam stopped, sitting up, he turned to face her squarely. “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?”

“I dunno.” She shrugged. “I haven’t exactly been the nicest to you since you and I were forced back into one another’s life.”

Sam surveyed her, “I still trust you.”

“But? Com’on Sam, we both know there is a ‘but’ in that statement.”

He sighed, laying back down on the bed. “What do you want me to say, Mags?”

“I want you to say what you’re gonna say.”

“And what if you don’t want to hear what I have to say?”

“It certainly hasn’t stopped you in the past," Maggie replied.

Again Sam sighed, and again she could see the cogwheels working inside his head as he decided what he wanted to say. “We should try to get some rest, we have a long few days ahead of us.”

“All right.” She drew back her hand and rolling over onto her back, she sat up. “Fine. What time do we wanna try to get going in the morning?”

“Around five, we have a long bus trip and hike out to where we need to get.”

Maggie nodded but said nothing as they prepared for bed. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to sleep. Her mind was too awake now filled with the events of the day and the prospect of tomorrow. With everything going on back in New York with the Avengers, in combination with marching into the jungle in the morning, and the associated nonsense accumulated over the past year. Instead, she grabbed her stress dummy out of her bag and worked through the various PT exercises to strengthen her hand when Sam finally dozed off.

Listening as Sam’s breathing first evened out before finally evolving into an all-out snore, Maggie couldn’t help but think about what Sam had said, about being a place holder for Barnes for whenever they found him. It brought into sharp relief, what was going to happen when they did inevitably find Barnes.

_If you ever find him mean._

Maggie wasn’t an idiot, it was a big _if_ when it came to tracking down Barnes. There were no certainties in life, least of all when you were tracking down a former Soviet Agent with a cybernetic prosthesis, retrograde amnesia who also happened to be Captain America’s best friend and lover. So what did it mean when she found Barnes or (more likely) she was forced to give up the search for whatever reason. She was currently using this search as a place holder for putting her life back together, because what point was there in even trying put her life back together at the moment?

_When we find him, I’m either gonna kiss him full on the mouth or punch him in the face._

She hadn’t decided yet.

Since Becca’s passing, she’d been trying to sort through how she felt about James Barnes, the man, the myth, the murderous cyborg, etc. She’d stopped having cutesy dreams. She was no longer having rendezvous with the man her mind had decided was James Barnes. That, she’d decided, was probably was for the absolute best. It wasn’t wise or healthy to think about him in that way. That James Barnes was a pure figment of her imagination. Okay, so what did that leave her? ‘Matt’ from Last Chance and the Winter Soldier. Neither promised to be pleasant companions in her dreams. Whatever the case may be, she was going to have to sort all of that shit out before they did find him or deal with the awkward and unfortunate consequences.

Drifting in and out, Maggie tried to focus on positives in her life, on the good things that had come out of the entire situation. Sam was back in her life, she was traveling, living debt-free for the first time in her adult life, she’d gotten to know a beautiful woman who she loved and now missed very much, and she’d become friends with Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff, two Avengers and honest to god amazing human beings, despite strong and persistent protests from the latter about that. She’d built something of a community, despite her being an outright bitch to most of them for the better part of two months. There was a lot to be thankful for. Yet, there was still that concern, that doubt, that ever creeping, and gnawing fear, what was going to happen when, inevitably, the other shoe dropped.

Despite Maggie’s wishes and best attempts the alarm did eventually go off, and they rose and checked out of the hotel before 5:30 and were on the bus headed to the middle of nowhere by 6:00. After several missteps, including getting on several wrong transfer busses, they successfully arrived in the middle of nowhere. Stopping for water and directions from some of the locals, Sam and Maggie then turned to the jungle, equipped with a map, compass, their wits, and all of Sam’s survival skills. They walked in silence for the first hour or so, only stopping to drink water and check their heading. Maggie took point, every fiber, every inch of her being focused on the task at hand.

“So. What’s the best-case scenario Mags? What’s the best possible outcome?” Sam asked a few yards behind her, his voice muffled and as damp as the dripping jungle around them.

“Finally got sick of the silence, huh?” She chuckled lightly. “Ummm,” Maggie paused to check the compass she had in her outstretched hand. “Best case scenario? Barnes is there and rolls out the welcome wagon for us.”

She could hear Sam’s eyes roll. “You know what I’m talking about Magdalen.”

“Oh. Fine. Fine. Best most plausible scenario.” She paused, adjusting her backpack. “The woman we talked to, she said that no one has been near the former base in years. I’m hoping we find something more than just ruins, perhaps intel.”

“Okay. Fair. By why the hell would Hydra put a base way out here?”

“I dunno. They’re Hydra. Why do shady organizations have bases anywhere anymore when we have Reddit and 4chan?” Maggie shrugged.

“You’re not wrong, but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Well. If we find a Hydra flunky while we’re out here, I’ll be sure to ask him that.”

“How do you know it’ll be a he?”

“Oh Sammie, now you’re just nitpicking. I think our Hydra agent in question will be a he because most serial killers and mass murders are white men. So not only are we looking for a man but a white man in the middle of the Argentine jungle.”

“Statistical anomaly.”

“Well Nazis in Argentina, weirder things have happened.”

They trudged on for what seemed an eternity until they stumbled upon the crumbling ruins of the former Hydra base, just as Maggie’s research and local knowledge had confirmed there would be.

“Holy shit.” Sam breathed, taking in the sight of the ruins.

“Didn’t think it was going to be here?” Maggie asked, glancing back at Sam.

“I’d rather hoped.”

Maggie chuckled weakly. “Believe it or not me too.” A dead, leaden feeling filled her stomach. “Okay.” She continued with a deep breath. “What do we do first?”

“Establish coms, secure perimeter, and set camp before we review the sat scans and discuss strategy.”

“Should we send Steve our coordinates? Check-in?”

“He gave me his burner number, but with murder bots, I have my serious doubts he’ll be answering any of our messages.”

“I get that, but just in case something happens. I’d like someone to know where we are. Leave some kind of footprint and a trail for Nat and Steve to follow if the worst happens.”

Sam nodded firmly, “understood.”

He sent the message, and they set about the preliminary tasks needed to venture safely into the crumbling ruins of a former Hydra base.

She unpacked her hiking pack, removing a smaller backpack from within, packed with survival essentials: Water, a flashlight, paracord, first aid kit, spare batteries, a video camera, walkie talkie, a machete, emergency shovel, and a utility knife. In addition to the survival essentials, she slipped her journal into the front pocket with several spare pencils and a pencil sharpener.

“Line one, line one, do you read me Mags?” Sam’s voice rang out in her ear.

“Line one is live, reading you loud and clear.” She answered the knot twisting in her stomach sent a painful jab in her abdomen.

They were almost ready to enter the old base, who knew what horrifying discoveries awaited them, or who might be waiting for them.

“You okay?”

Maggie whipped her head around to meet Sam’s concerned gaze. “Yeah, Sam. I’m fine.” She stammered.

“Mags, I gotta know if you’re good," Sam said shortly, as he removed and loaded his handgun from his bag.

Maggie glanced between the firearm and him. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You don’t have anything to prove. You don’t have to go in.”

 _If you’re not going to be able to hold it together._ That was the unspoken meaning behind his words, and she wasn’t going to rise to it. She’d planned this mission, found this base, she was going to follow it to its natural conclusion. Maggie snorted. “I think it’s a little late for that. I’m going in. It’ll be more effective with two.”

“Okay, but say the word, and I’ll get you out," Sam said.

“I’m good, Sam.” She repeated one more time just to assure herself and Sam that she was indeed going to be able to play it cool once inside.

Sam nodded, and they approached the old entrance of the building, almost completely covered over with moss and vines. Clearing away the rubble and the overgrowth, they entered the crumbling ruins silently and in a single file. Maggie and Sam moved through the upper level of the compound. It looked as though it had once been a single large room. If there had been upper floors, their remains had been stripped away for scrap or as evidence for whatever had caused the explosion in the first place. Feeble sunlight filtered through what remained the moss and vine-covered windows, and holes in the ceiling allowed for limey water drip onto the cement floors forming little stalagmites on the floor. The only sounds that could be heard outside of their shallow intake of breath and their footsteps was the steady drip drip drip of water and the fading sounds of the jungle as they moved further and further from the entrance and natural light.

Maggie recorded it all on her video camera, doing her best to keep the camera steady while also capturing every detail.

“You said there were at least four basement levels.” Sam’s voice broke the silence, making her jump.

“Yeah. At least.” She nodded.

“We’re going to lose natural light, switch to flashlights, stairs are to your right. I’ll go first.” Sam instructed.

“10-4” She swallowed following behind Sam without another word.

They descended into darkness, the flashlights only marginally helping to illuminate the soggy air. Every breath felt like it was sucked in through a damp sponge and smelled heavily of rot and decay.

“Well, this is fun," Maggie muttered, wrinkling her nose pulled her bandana over her nose and mouth.

“Not exactly my first choice for a vacation spot, but better this than murder bots.”

“Fair.” Maggie nodded, glancing around. Spotting the same thing, they both stopped looking at the diverging hallways. “I’m likely going to regret saying this, but we’ll make better time if we split up.”

“I agree.”

“The ‘I’m going to regret this’ or the splitting up thing.”

“Both. Keep the coms channels open and report anything interesting.” Sam said shortly.

Maggie snorted, but nodded, “Yeah. Sounds good. Good luck, be safe.”

“You too.”

They both turned to their respective corridors, and paused, glancing at each other before walking silently down the halls.

It was slow going, but Maggie could only imagine it would’ve been even more tedious had they been together. Sam was very thorough, it was his military training, she was sure. But Maggie knew what she was looking for, and it wasn’t going to be in any of the empty offices, stripped clean of anything sensitive. What she was looking for would be hidden.

She cleared the second level, and proceeded down the stairs, to the sub-level three. This floor hadn’t been as thoroughly cleared out. There were files and papers scattered on the floors, and the desks she did find in the various offices and corridors looked as though they had been ransacked.

Maggie stopped as she moved to exit the last office she’d cleared when she noticed that three shelves had been left standing upright. The entire room had been more or less flipped upside down, but those three massive metal shelves were untouched.

They looked like munitions racks, heavy sturdy, not about to move any time soon. “Hey, Sam. I’m on sub-level three, last room on the left before the stairwell. I think I’ve found a tunnel.” She said, her breath stirring up the dust, mold, and who knew what else around her.

The com line crackled. “Sam? Do you copy?” She called out.

Again there was nothing but the gentle crackle of the line. Her heart started pounding. _Something’s happened._

“I read you.” Sam’s voice washed over her. “Want me to proceed to your location?”

“No. Nothing confirmed yet, proceed as normal, will assess as necessary.”

 “10-4.”

“Sorry have to set you down to avoid this going all Clover Field, I’m not Matt Reeves or J.J. Abrams.” She muttered setting the camera and flashlight down facing the shelves and approached, feeling out the floor with her foot, Maggie smiled to herself as she found the grooves that had been worn into the floor from the shelves being dragged back and forth over it.

Grabbing the shelf, she threw her body weight against it and was more than a little surprised when the shelf gave way without much of a fight. A gust of stale air rushed into the office space, smelling of rot and decay. “Fun.” She grimaced and picked up the camera and flashlight before she took a step toward the tunnel that the shelves had produced for her.

“Found a tunnel, Sam. Going to investigate. If you don’t hear from me in thirty minutes, come looking for me.” She called.

“10-4 proceed with caution.”

Should she have told Sam that the tunnel was creepy and smelled of death? Probably. But she wasn’t going to wait, wasn’t going to hear anything about it being ‘too dangerous’ or that this was something Sam should do. She’d found the super scary tunnel, and she was going to be the one to follow the tunnel down to wherever it might reveal.

Fortunately, it wasn’t a narrow or squat tunnel. In fact, it was tall and wide enough to accommodate two Steve Rogers sized people without any particular trouble, and thick electric cables ran the length of the ceiling, showing that there had once been electricity to the currently very dark and very creepy secret passage. This wasn’t a tunnel that had been built for a quick escape or storage. People had been in and out of here regularly, and from the looks of the thing, they’d been rather bulky people. The walls and ceiling were plastered, the floor (or what she could see of it through the mildew and algae) was cement, and she found that she slipped and slid as the passage dipped further down into the ground.

After about a good fifty to one hundred feet, the tunnel opened up into a room. Office space, there were four desks, and at least a dozen filing cabinets lined up against the wall, three doors lay beyond. Maggie exhaled. “Jackpot. I found files, Sam!” She practically laughed.

Without waiting for a response, she walked over to the cabinets and yanked at the first drawer. It didn’t pull out, and she glanced at the lock. “Right.” She said slowly. Dropping her backpack, she turned the camera off and set it down beside the pack. Removing her utility knife, rammed it in the lock, busting it in two.

“Mags?”

“Down here, Sam.” She called, returning the knife to its sheath, shoved it in her belt, before yanking the drawers open.

“You didn’t waste any time.”

“Absolutely not. Wanna get the others?”

“Sure.”

There was the general sound of metal creaking and scraping as Sam dislodged locks, and opened the filing cabinets.

“Know what we’re looking for?”

“Anything to do with Red Room, Winter Soldier, or the Wolf Spider Project. All things that the Winter Soldier was involved in.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“You can copy it if you like. I have a cheat sheet in my journal.” She replied lightly.

“I’m gonna try to get the power on. One of those rooms has to be a generator room. Maybe we can get power back up.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“If you’re going to scour files for a few days, we’re going to need air circulation and power down here. Steve gave me some Stark Tech to help with that.” Sam said, rising he turned to the three doors. “Which one?”

Maggie stopped, turning squarely to the doors. There wasn’t any markings or anything to distinguish them from each other. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I’ll take the one on the left if you take the one on the right.”

“Sure.” Sounds good.”

They walked over to their respective steel-reinforced door, and Maggie exhaled a shaking breath. “Please be the generator room, please be the generator room.” She whispered, pushing against the door it opened without so much as an ominous creak.

Shining the light around the room, Maggie grimace. This room was decidedly _not_ the generator room. It looked like it had served as an operating room. A surgery table sat in the middle of the room and occupied most of the space. Although upon further inspection, Maggie realized surgical table might have been a little more than generous. It was a metal table that had thick leather straps attached. Instinctively she looked down at the floor it had a drain. “Ahh. Fantastic.” Her stomach twisted into knots, her heart beating faster.

“What you find?” Sam asked from the other room.

“Operation room. I think. Torture chamber more likely.” She answered, the taste of bile stinging on the back of her tongue. “You?”

“Generator room.”

“Lucky bastard," Maggie said, exiting the room, she popped her head into where Sam was buried deep in wires and cords. “You want help?”

“Nah I got it.”

“I’ll go see what unspeakable horror is behind door number three.” She said.

“Be careful Mags," Sam warned, but she was already at the door,

Like the first one, the door gave way easily, and she shined the flashlight around trying to get a feel for the size and content of the room. There were cryogenic tanks, four of them each upright in a corner. “The Winter Soldier or someone similar was here at some point!” She called over her shoulder before taking a hesitant step into the interior of the room.

Then, her eyes finally focused long enough to spot what occupied the center of the room. A metal chair, bolted to the floor, with arm and ankle straps of tempered metal and leather to ensure the occupant remained seated. Just above the headrest of the seat, there were metal plates, approximately the right size, and shape to fit around a man’s head. “Oh, fuck.” She breathed out sharply, but she couldn’t move, she was glued to the spot.

“What? What’s going on.” Sam rushed up behind her, and stopped in the doorway, his flashlight casting more shadows around her. “Mags. What is that thing?”

 Maggie took several steps forward to examine the plates, which were lined with electrodes of some kind. She’d read about this, bits and pieces here and there in reports, building the shape of a thing that she hadn’t quite been able to fit together, now, here it was. “This was how they reset his memory.”

“You mean they...” Sam faded off, entering the room behind her.

“Fried his brain like a fly in a bug zapper until he forgot who he was? Yes.” Her voice was shaking.

“You okay?”

“No.” She shook her head, out of the corner of her eye, one of the cryo chambers caught her attention, and she turned to approach it. It was a gigantic metal hulking thing with a single-window and several locking mechanisms on the outside. Pausing, she put her hand on the handle and glanced up at Sam, who was watching her intently.

“You sure you wanna do that?” He asked.

“Leave no stone unturned?” Taking a deep breath, she hauled the metal tube opened and peered inside.

The inside was white porcelain, or it had been once. There were thick straps, again of leather and metal, that had been added after the initial fabrication of the cryo chamber. She paused, looking at the lid and the frosted glass window, and frowned. Maggie brought her hand to the score marks, her fingers lining up. “Oh. Fuck.”She wrenched her hand away as if she’d received an electric shock.

“What you find?” He walked up beside her, peering over her shoulder. “Are those?”

Maggie nodded mutely, afraid if she’d opened her mouth she’d throw up. Her stomach turned, the air in the room was sticky and clung to her skin and made her lungs ache. “I think I need to go sit down.” She managed, before turning and staggering from the room, and back out to the filing cabinets where her backpack was.

Sinking to the floor, she pulled the bandana away from her face and took a long draw from her water bottle.            

_He'd been here. They’d held him here. The chair, the cryo tank. Fuck. He was awake when they locked him in that thing. Fuck._

“Fuck.” She muttered, shaking her head, she returned the water bottle to its place and rose shakily to her feet and turned back to the filing cabinets.

She’d honestly expected a pile of mush, considering the state of everything else. However, this being Hydra who’d apparently invested in state of the art, weatherproof filing cabinets, the files emerged as pristine, and the day they’d been put into the filing cabinet. Her fingers worked deftly as she flipped through each file, eyes scanning for each of the keywords she and Natasha had put together and that Natasha had made her memorize.

Maggie could hear Sam moving around her, back into the generator room. Her brain buzzed. They had a chair, the chair they used to electrocute him until he forgets. They had the operation room. Did they torture him? They _did_ torture him. Torture him so that they could make him forget, torture him so that he’d kill for them.

She’d known, she’d known that’s what they’d done. They’d said as much in their file. But actually seeing it. Seeing what they’d done and how they’d done it.

The image of the fingernail marks clawing at the inside of the metal cryogenics chamber sent a chill up her spine. He’d probably used the metal prosthesis. Then again, she’d seen several photos and read many accounts where they’d removed the prosthesis. Was that why? No. If she knew Hydra, there was a more sinister reason for removing the “asset’s” metal limb. They’d tortured him, and who knows how many others, in that room. Why exactly, she didn’t know. She did know that the only way she was going to find out is if she read through the files she’d found. Which would still only be second to asking the man himself. _Or what’s left of him anyway._ It was a cruel and horrible thing to think but how much of Bucky Barnes had survived the seventy years of trauma and torture and killing and bloodshed that had filled his existence since his disappearance in 1943? It was difficult to say. All that remained for her to do was her best to fill in the missing pieces, learn as much as possible, and figure out a way to bring this man home, one way or another.

Her eyes jerked her back into the mildewed, moldy vault as they recognized one of the file names. It was one of her keywords. “Sam, I think I found something.” She called out, pulling the file out, as Sam walked over to where she was sitting.

“Anything useful?”

“Not sure yet.” Maggie hesitated, glancing up at Sam. “Wanna see?” She inquired.

Sam nodded, sinking down beside her, wiping his face with his bandanna and adjusting his grip on his flashlight. “All right. Take us away, Mags.”

Maggie exhaled, opening the file across her lap.

There he was. James Barnes, the Winter Soldier. There was his photo paper-clipped to the inside cover. Like the file from Kiev, there was the photo of The Winter Soldier in the Cryogenics chamber, and then another of Bucky Barnes clipped to the bottom. It was a strange juxtaposition, the man and the weapon side by side. Maggie turned to the text, which was all in Russian. Skimming the text, she found that she was more or less following along with what was being described, and with the accompanying photographs, it was pretty clear what they were talking about. There were before and after pictures, showing the physical and mental state of the subject. In the before photo the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, was heavily restrained, his head practically in a vice, struggling against the attendants. His expression was a glower as he was forced to look into the camera. She’d seen the same expression, well very nearly the same expression when she’d discovered him in her barn. It wasn’t quite anger, but terror mixed with a blinding, sustaining rage. However, despite all the rage and anger and fear in the “before” photograph, the “after” photograph was even worse. In that photograph, the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, wasn’t restrained. He was sitting in The Chair starring at the camera with a vacant expression. His eyes, sharp and piercing like knives in the before photo, were docile and lifeless in the after picture. Whatever they had done to him had been tremendously and incredibly effective.

There was a ton of medical jargon in the report, naturally all in Russian. She and Nat had fortunately anticipated some of this and had compiled a list of Russian medical terms in a handy reference list before leaving for Argentina. Reaching blindly for her backpack, she retrieved her notebook as she starred at the word(s) in question, focusing intently. “Whatcha find?” Sam asked.

“I’m not sure. But for some reason, I recognize this word, and I don’t know why.” She said, flipping through her notebook until she found what she was searching for. “I hate it when I’m right.”

“What?”

“Psychotropic drug cocktail in addition to a shit ton of painkillers.” She explained. “Whenever he was on while on Last Chance, he was going through what looked like serious withdraw symptoms.” Maggie shook her head. “These Hydra fuckers pumped him full of shit to keep him, and I would bet his pain, manageable. I can’t imagine how they ensured he could think clearly for missions, but whatever they did, it was effective.” She rubbed her face, closing her journal with a snap. “And that stuff’s highly addictive, meaning even if Barnes had managed to escape, the withdrawal symptoms would have been so catastrophic Hydra would’ve been able to track him down and bring him back into the fold.”

“So how’d our guy do it then? Avoid Hydra? Because we know they were looking for him. Probably still are.”

“He was hiding my barn for two weeks, remember?”

“Right, My bad.” Sam frowned, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Maggie rolled her eyes, returning her focus to the file in front of her. She was going to have to spend some time with the file to extract everything she needed from it, but only after she went through its contents completely.

“What do you mean keep his pain manageable?” Sam looked up at her, brow furrowed.

“Well...” She began slowly, flipping through the file. “I didn’t get a good look at the arm when he was on Last Chance with me, but it looked like it was inset into his chest, with a metal plate. I can’t imagine that it was painless. I seriously doubt that arm is very light, it was built for strength, not for wearability. And.” Maggie paused, squeezing her eyes shut. “If I remember correctly, he said he had feeling “of a sort” with the arm. Which means sensation and nerve connections, if not just a brain implant to make the arm work. I have serious doubts that Hydra got that right the first time. After looking at Barnes’s medical charts from other Hydra bases, it’s clear most of his left arm survived the initial fall.”

“So why remove the arm all the way? Why have a full metal arm?”

Maggie could feel her blood run cold and her hands shook as she picked up a report. “This is why.” She squeezed her eyes shut as she handed the file off to Sam. The bitter taste of stomach bile stinging the back of her throat as her stomach twisted.

“Holy shit," Sam muttered under his breath, his eyes focused on the photographs.

There was a series of them. Naturally, Hydra wanted to be thorough when documenting the creation of their weapon. Barnes hadn’t started out with a full arm prosthesis. It had been something that had attached just above the elbow. “Too Heavy” and “Not properly attached” appeared multiple times in the file. “Attachment site infection” and “site rejection of prosthesis” also appeared. So they’d cut a little more, and tried to attach the metal prosthesis with marginal success. “Subject was able to remove the prosthesis without authorization.” Was another phrase that Maggie had been able to parse out. Then the Winter Soldier Arm as she knew it had made an appearance. They’d inset a metal plate into his body cavity to stabilize the muscle and in some cases even replaced muscle, bones, and socket tissue. It was strong, the subject was unable to remove it without basically a surgical procedure, and it was difficult to rip off completely. “Subject attempted to...” _Fuck._ Maggie turned away, clenching her eyes shut.

“What?” Sam asked.

“Last photo.” She winced.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“He attempted to.”

“Yup.”

“And we’re done.” Sam removed the file from her unresisting hands and placed it in his bag.

“Done?” She echoed, watching as he rose to his feet.

“I’m going to need some parts from my bag topside, and I’m not leaving you down here alone.”

“Sam, I’m fine.” Maggie protested.

“I know. That’s the problem.” Sam extended a hand to her. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat, review footage, and we’ll talk through our options.”

Maggie opened her mouth to protest but was interrupted by her stomach belching excess bile into the back of her throat, triggering her gag reflex, and making her dry heave. Swallowing back both her wounded pride and the acidic bile, Maggie took Sam’s hand and was hauled to her feet.

It wasn’t a long trek back to their campsite, or rather not nearly as long as it had taken them to get down into that sub-basement bunker. She could feel Sam beside her, ever watchful and always thinking.      

For her part, Maggie tried to memorize the route, how many steps had they taken between the bunker file room and the entrance of the tunnel, how many minutes passed between the office space concealing the tunnel to the set of stairs, then stairs to the surface. It was tedious and boring, but it was something to keep her mind off of what she had just witnessed, something that was likely to keep her up for days, if not years into the future.

Sam and Maggie released a collective breath as they exited the crumbling remains, and Maggie yanked off the bandana she’d been using to cover her mouth and nose and took in a dramatic breath of fresh air.

“You hungry?” Sam asked as they reached their campsite.

“Not particularly. Where did you stuff that file?” She asked.

“Food first.”

“How can you possibly think about eating after all that?” Maggie asked, but immediately put her hands up when she saw his expression. “Right. Stupid question, ex-soldier, stomachs of steel and all that shit.”

“You eat and sleep when you can. How’s your water intake?”

 “Minimal.”

“Then hydrate.” He tossed her a fresh water bottle, before topping off his own from one of the multi-gallon jugs they’d brought with them.

Maggie rolled her eyes but obliged him. The last thing she needed was Sam nagging her when there was no one else around for miles to either come to her aid or stop her from bludgeoning someone with a rock.

“For tonight’s dinner options we have Spaghetti with Meat Sauce, Chili with Beans, and Diced Chicken. What are we feeling, Mags?”

She wrinkled her nose, the very thought of eating anything at the moment was repulsive, but eating MREs was even worse. “Chili with beans, I guess. Couldn’t Stark have hooked us up with something a little bit bougie-er than MREs? The guy’s a billionaire, and former military contractor, certainly he has some hookups when it comes to food.”

“Better than what Riley and I ate back in the day, and definitely better than what Steve and the Commandos had way-way back in the day.”

Maggie snorted, shaking her head. “I didn’t realize C-Rations and hardtack were setting the bar.”

“You should ask Steve about it sometime. The guy won’t shut up about how much better the food is now, I told him he should start a food blog.”

She smiled, nodding amicably as Sam sorted through and prepared the MREs. That would be a thing, Captain America, foodie. Would certainly be a change of pace from murder bots and an ongoing international manhunt.

Again her mind drifted back to the bunker, to what she had seen, to the file, and the photos. Her eyes turned to Sam’s bag where he’d shoved the folder. She wanted to look at it again, wanted to pour over the yellowing pages, wanted to extract every last drop of information that she could, like wringing out a sponge, twisting and squeezing until there was nothing left to find.

She was vaguely aware of Sam handing her the chili with beans, and the cornbread that went with it, and her body it seemed was hungry enough to auto operate the correct functions needed to ingest food, but her mind was gone, far away, trying to think of anything and everything she could to avoid the bunker and all it’s contents, while simultaneously trying to figure out a way to get that file from Sam.

“Mags?” Maggie blinked to find that Sam was watching her, a concerned look on his face. “You okay there?”

“I’m fine, Sammie," Maggie said, trying to sop up the last of the chili and beans with the cornbread.

“Yeah, because you look like someone who’s well adjusted and coping.” Sam shook his head, that all too familiar look of frustrated resignation on his face.

“What Sam?”

"Nothin', you wanna hear Mags."

“Say it, and be done with it. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long few days out here in the sticks, Sam.” She said crossly.

“It’s going to be long regardless of what I do.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, “Thanks for that.”

Sam sighed, standing up, he started collecting the garbage from their meal and began to pace the length of the camp.

“Just say it, it can’t be any worse than the shit we’ve said to each other in the past.”

“You’re not coping. You’re not processing, grieving, whatever you need to do to move on.” Sam blurted out. “Over the past year, it’s been like watching a train wreck in slow motion because you’re not working on coping with what’s happened.”

“You think this is a spiral?” She snorted.

“Look. I know I wasn’t there for you when Riley died. I fucked up. I get that. You have every right to be mad and angry at me about that, but I’m here for you now, and I’m saying that I’m worried about you.”

“I appreciate your concern, Sam, but I’m fine.” She said flatly. It was, of course, a lie, but she really didn’t want to get into any of that with Sam at the moment. He had enough on his plate without her dumping on him.

“I don’t know what’s worse, that you think I’d believe you, or that you’re trying to convince yourself that you're fine.”

“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”

“Mags I’m being serious.”

“I don’t need a lecture right now, Sammie. I really, really don’t.”

“Oh. Okay. So what I’m just supposed to sit back and watch you self destruct?”

“It didn’t seem to bother you before I lost the ranch to this superhero fiasco, not sure why you’re bothering with it now.”

"Why are you doing all of this? Why not take the witness protection? Start over, clean slate, it would better than dragging yourself through all this shit." Sam asked exasperation chiseled into his features.

 "You know I can’t, I have to get him back. I have to find him, for Becca and—”

"Jeezus. Mags.” Sam cut her off.

“What Sam?”

”You can’t fix everything. This isn’t your responsibility.”

”That’s not what this is.”

”Then what? What is bringing barnes in going to achieve?”

“If this was Riley, wouldn’t you want someone to do everything possible to get him back?”

”But this isn’t Riley, Mags, this is something else all together.”

”That’s not the point.”

”No. I think that is the point. Getting Barnes back isn’t going to bring back Riley, or Antonio, or Becca. It’s not going to change what happened last May. It’s not going to _fix_ anything. Finding Bucky Barnes isn’t going to fix anything Maggie. You can’t expect it to, because it won’t. It’s not fair to you and let's be real that’s a lot of unrealistic expectations to put on a guy who’s had his brain repeatedly fried for the last 70 years.”

“Sam.”

“It’s true Mags. Finding him isn’t going to fix you, and you aren’t going to fix him. That’s just the way it works. The only way that this is going to get better for you is if you work on it. That means you have to process this shit.”

“Sam, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?”      

“Sam.” Maggie exhaled slowly and looked up at Sam’s expression.

She wanted to tell him that no she wasn’t okay, that everything about this was wrong. She wanted to tell him that she felt like she was barely treading water and that if she stopped, she might be pulled under entirely. Above all she wanted to tell him that she knew, she knew finding Barnes wasn’t going to fix everything. She didn’t think he was going to fix anything. That was the point. She didn’t _want_ to fix anything, because that would put her into direct conflict with something she’d been avoiding for over a year. Everything she was, everything that had made her Magdalen Ramirez was gone. She didn’t want to work on herself, because that would mean that sooner or later she would have to come face to face with the reality that she had no idea who she was anymore, or that perhaps even more horrifying she really didn’t like the person who had taken her place. Bucky Barnes wasn’t going to fix her, he was just the distraction so that she didn’t have to try to fix herself.

“I’m grateful that you’re concerned. I know that I’m spiraling. I just really haven’t had a chance to come up for air. When I get the opportunity to reset and recharge I’m going to take it. I promise.” Maggie said slowly. “But first, we need to focus on our mission here. And the only way we’re going to be able to do that is if we’re not dragging out my mental health here in the middle of the Argentine jungle.”

Sam nodded, “If that’s what you wanna do, I can’t make you take care of yourself. But you can’t help other people if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Maggie said nothing, for better or worse, she had nothing to say that Sam wanted to hear. She was focused on their mission at the moment, and although it was likely to lead to a highly self-destructive end, she was going to see it through.

“All right then," Sam said with a heavy sigh, breaking the long silence. "Let’s focus on our game plan for the next few days.”

They talked and planned, and reviewed the footage Maggie had taken until midnight before they crashed hard in their hammocks, thankful and grateful not to be sleeping on the ground, and to be protected from the elements and mosquitos.

The following day Sam got the power up and running in the bunker, which allowed for easier cataloging of their findings, and she settled into her task of cataloging and prioritizing.

Maggie wanted to take all the files but knew that the Argentinian Government wouldn’t be exactly thrilled if she tried to take highly classified documents across their borders. So Maggie was selective, only taking those that were relevant to the Winter Soldier, and the other keywords that Natasha had sent her along with.

She and Sam didn’t talk. There really wasn’t anything for them to talk about, Sam had said his piece, and now he was going to let her act like a big girl and take care of it. That aside, spending 12 hour days digging through an abandoned Hydra lab didn’t exactly create much in the way conversation

So Maggie did what she normally did, she retreated into herself and mentally picked apart what had happened. Maggie couldn’t get the chair, the cryotube, and that first file out of her head. It had sunk in through her skin and seeped into her brain, driving her, pushing her. She had to know who that man was, who that person was. She needed to know what sort of weapon James Barnes had become, and what they might be facing should they ever succeed in tracking him down.

“Hey, Mags!” Sam’s voice made her look up. His expression was grave as he emerged from the tunnel into the file room.

“What is it? What happened?”

Sam stopped, trying to find the right words before he spoke. “They dropped a country out of the sky?”

“What? Who? Why?”

Sam extended his phone to her, which she took and started reading. “We...we should’ve gone back. We should’ve canceled whenever Steve said Murder Bots.”

“You really think you and I could’ve done any better?” Sam asked as she handed him back his phone.

“I mean, you are The Falcon.”

“Now you’re just mean.”

Maggie shook her head, rising to her feet. “I have one more drawer to go through, then we have everything related to our case. If you wanna leave now and get back there to help, now. We can go.” She said. “This is going to fuck up some serious stuff. Like. This is bad Sam. This is really, really bad.”

“I know Mags.” Sam nodded. “Can you finish everything up in the next two hours?”

“Yeah.”

"I’ll see what I can do and what strings I can pull, but I may be able to get us a Quinjet out of here.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

It felt like everything was spinning, and Maggie felt feverish as she thumbed through the last of the files. Packing everything away in the extra bags she’d brought, she knew there would be time for closer examination of her findings later.

The Avengers had dropped a country from the sky. So far, no one had been able to produce a body count. There were a lot of injured people, but any number of dead, no matter how small, that would be blood on the Avenger’s hands. What did that Mean for Steve and Nat and the others? What did that mean for Sam and her and their little mission to find James Barnes, super-assassin and weapon of Hydra? But as she had told Sam, this was going to fuck up some serious stuff. Their ability to find Barnes, Sam’s ability to stay out of Stark’s bullshit, and ultimately her ability to go home.

Shutting down the generator and erasing all evidence that they’d been there, Maggie collecting her things, she met Sam out on the surface. By the time she came top side he’d already packed up camp and was organizing an LZ for the Quinjet.

“We’ll have touch down in about five minutes, you got everything?” Sam asked

“God I hope so.” Maggie nodded, looking down at her load. Nearly a week’s worth of work to find, it would take months for her to decipher and translate the bunch of them.

They passed the time in silence, tension building and swelling as they waited, before the collectively exhaled as the Quinjet came into view, landed, and the ram lowered to reveal Steve and Nat.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes," Sam said as Sam and Steve rushed toward one another. Embracing, they kissed in greeting. Breaking apart, they pressed their foreheads together, murmuring things Mags couldn’t hear as they held one another.

Maggie turned to Nat, who was looking grave faced as she approached. “I thought I told you two not to do anything stupid until we got back stateside," Maggie said, going to embrace Nat. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Couple of close calls, how about you guys? Find anything useful?” Nat replied as they pulled apart.

“Some. We cleared out the pertinent information.” Maggie paused, uncertain if she should tell Natasha or Steve about what else they’d found down there.

“You saw it didn’t you?”

Maggie opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by Sam, “Mags, Nat, let’s get moving, the Argentinian Government gave us a narrow window. We gotta go.”

“I’m sure we’ll do a full debrief once we get settled in.”

“Settled in?” Maggie echoed.

“Stark’s moving Avenger’s headquarters.” Natasha sighed. “It’s a long story.” She added, seeing. Maggie’s perplexed expression.

 “I’ll bet.”

“Let me help you with those.” Natasha picked up several bags of files and moved effortlessly toward the Quinjet.

Maggie caught Sam’s gaze, his expression a mix of equal parts concern and resignation. Maggie hadn’t had the opportunity to stop, to rest, to come up for air. Now with this new turn of events, it didn’t seem like she was going to get that chance anytime soon, she knew it and Sam knew it. But what could any of them do? There was nothing else for it, that’s just the way it had to be until it didn’t have to be that way anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a mammoth chapter! I don't think the remaining five are shaping out to be nearly the ~9,000 words that this one was. I hope that you all enjoyed! This chapter has been in the works since basically I started plotting out part two. What do we think? Well, I think as always, poor Mags, but also damn Bucky. Sam continues to be one of my favorites to write, and I hope you all enjoy him as much as I do.
> 
> I look forward to hearing what you think. Let me know! I always enjoy hearing from y'all! Up Next Chapter 14: Fail Safes!


	14. Fail Safes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> Serious SERIOUS TW: suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, self-harm ideation, blood, nightmares, medical trauma, graphic medical trauma, torture, and implied medical torture
> 
> Recommended Listening: Born To Die by Lana Del Ray, Outside by Hollywood Undead, Enter Sandman by Metallica, Until It Sleeps by Metallica, Ghost by mystery skulls 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6?si=mhP6RR74R9WcXDEH_et37A

_He was in the chair, they had him strapped down. There was the buzz of the electrodes, and just above the hum, he could hear the words being spoken. He didn_ _’t need to hear them to know what they were. They were dragging him back, dragging him down, stripping away his humanity and leaving only the weapon, leaving only the Soldier._

_'Your name is Bucky Barnes, you were born March 10, 1917, your parents' names are George and Winifred Barnes. You had three sisters: Abigail, Rachel, and Becca Barnes.’ He tried to focus, tried to fight it, tried to cling to what he knew to be facts, to be truths. 'You’re best friends with Steve Rogers, you have to get back to Steve, you have to get back home, get back to your home, to your family, to your Steve.'_

_He could hear the screams, his screams, mixed with the screams of those the Soldier had killed, those that he had killed. He could see the shining eyes of the doctors, no not doctors, butchers, who operated on him._

_He could feel himself being pushed down, locked away, just below the surface, screaming, begging, pleading, bargaining, fighting with every ounce of strength as they pulled him apart, and pushed him out of his own mind._

_The pain grew and swelled, even as he fought. He knew if he surrendered the horrible things, they would make him do. But he would surrender, he would always surrender._

_Then there was nothing._

_'Soldier’_

_'Ready to comply.’_

He awoke. Sitting bolt upright, a thin sheen of sweat covered his face, he wiped at it with a shaking hand. He winced as he moved to throw his legs over the side of the bed, his back and shoulder twinging, a sharp pain shooting up and down his spine.

_Your mind and body are not your own._

Since he had found out about Becca, what dreams he’d had, what memories he’d recovered, they’d not been pleasant ones.

He remembered the chair, the electrodes, the pain. He remembered the fight. He remembered how he’d given in. How he’d given in every single time.

He exhaled, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, he tried to ease the pounding in his skull just behind his eyes.

_Your mind and body are not your own._

It was only a matter of time before they crawled back inside his skull. It didn’t even have to be Hydra. Anyone could control the Winter Soldier, all they needed were the right words. He wasn’t safe, the world wasn’t safe. He’d managed to break Hydra’s conditioning once, would he be able to do it again if they sunk their claws back into him?

“Ahhh.” He cried out, trying to find a way to release the pressure behind his eyes, find a way to make it stop, to make it all stop.

He was crying, he could feel the tears as they fell, the salt stinging the skin around his eyes. It was a release of a sort, but it wasn’t a permanent fix. The pressure would return and with it a headache that would linger for days, threatening to crack his skull into two.

How long could he go on like this? How long could he possibly keep this up? Trying to stay one step ahead of Hydra, and keep Steve, Romanoff, and whoever else was looking for him two steps behind him. He couldn’t run from Hydra much longer, and he couldn’t hide from Steve forever. This wasn’t sustainable, not in the long term.

_I honestly thought I’d be dead or captured by now._

It was a grim thought, but honest. He was lucky that he’d managed to evade capture this long. He’d certainly had his close calls.

Was someone keeping people off his trail? He was a master assassin and expert covert ops agent, but he’d made several crucial mistakes, mistakes that should’ve gotten him captured or killed.

It could be either Romanoff or Steve, they both had that capacity but would do so for vastly different reasons. Romanoff had likely figured out by now that he didn’t want to be found, and as a professional courtesy was eliminating possible threats. Steve, on the other hand, well, Steve would keep people off his tail so he could find him first.

_Steve._

He remembered Steve. Steve was the first thing he’d remembered. It was what had broken the Hydra programming. He could remember that moment, that second that he’d broken the hydra programming, as the helicarrier was collapsing around them. It had been like waking from a horrible nightmare, only to find that he was the monster with blood on his hands. He’d woken up many more times since then, drenched in sweat, remembering what he’d done, everything that he’d done, being reminded over and over of what he had done, of all the horrors he’d committed, all of the blood on his hands.

Then the fall. Steve had fallen, and he’d gone after him. He hadn’t been sure why, he still wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided to drag him from the river, but there was something, some part of him, some compulsion to protect Steve.

Was that why he’d kept on running? Why he didn’t want Steve to find him now? Was he trying to protect Steve, protect someone that Bucky Barnes, that he, had loved from finding out the truth about what he’d become? Was he trying to protect himself from what Steve might do if he knew everything that he had done as the Winter Soldier? Or was it the simple reality that just like that Hydra could take it all away again? He didn’t know if Steve would accept the dangers or understand the realities of who or what he was. The man had been prepared to let the winter soldier bludgeon him to death, he wasn’t going to accept what he had done, not going to accept that things were different now, they had to be different because as long as he had Hydra’s programming in his head, there was always the potential that he could be compromised.

So what was the fail-safe option? Put a bullet in his skull the moment that there seemed to be a chance that might happen? It wouldn’t guarantee anything, Hydra had brought people back from the dead before.

_This is the fail-safe option._

He hated admitting that, even to himself. Despite everything, running and hiding was still the best way to protect himself and others from what the winter soldier was capable of.

There was no fail-safe option, there was no respite. He would run and hide, and then when it came to it, would fight to make sure Hydra never took him alive.

_***_

_She awoke she was in her own bed, not at the compound, not at the tower, but at home, her home, the house on the ranch. The windows were open, the light breeze stirring the gossamer curtains, casting shadows in the moonlight._

_Maggie glanced around, her shirt clinging to her clammy, sticky skin._ _“Mags.”_

_She turned her head toward the doorway where the voice had come from. That voice, she knew that voice. Scrabbling from the bed, she wrenched the door open and found that whatever had called her name was gone._

_“_ _Mags?”_

 _She blinked, peering cautiously out of the bedroom door._ _“Riley?” She called out, her voice shaking._

 _“_ _Mags? Where are you?”_

 _“_ _Riley!” She rushed down the hallway to the stairs._

 _“_ _You have to find me, Mags.” The voice called, and Maggie slipped and slid down the too slick wooden steps._

 _“_ _Riley. Where are you? You have to let me find you!” She cried out, stumbling through the living room, the ofrenda intact and where it should be, pictures of Riley and Sam on the walls, into the kitchen where Riley’s voice was calling her._

_Maggie stopped, she could hear a kettle boiling on the stove and the creak of the hinges on the swinging door between the kitchen and the living room. The smell of rot and mold and decay filled her senses. Her eyes, which had adjusted to the dark hallways of her house, blinked as they tried to filter what was now emerging before her._

_“_ _Thank you for joining us, Ms. Ramirez. I’m sure there is a lot you could teach us.” She turned to see a face emerge from the dark corner. The man, the man who’d tortured her, who’d set her house on fire._

_"No.” She shook her head, backing away, she was stopped as she backed into a wall._

_Whirling around, she looked up into the face of the Winter Soldier, his cold hard eyes staring down at her, his jaw clenched, his expression unfeeling._ _“James.” She breathed._

 _“_ _No. Not James. But the Winter Soldier has been invaluable to our mission, and now you will too.”_

 _Maggie backed away, just enough to see the Winter Soldier hold up her phone. Riley_ _’s audio letters playing, or bits of them anyway._

 _“_ _James. You have to listen to me.” There was a pleading in her voice as she back away from him._

 _He didn_ ' _t respond. Instead, she was grabbed by cold hands, and a sharp sheering pain shot through her body, making her double over even as she fought against the hands dragging her toward the table._

_The table, she was back in the bunker, back in their operation room, their torture chamber. She looked down to find she was covered in blood, her blood, a metal hand, a metal prosthesis dangling from her left forearm. She screamed, struggling against the men trying to haul her onto the operation table._

_There in the corner stood the Winter Soldier, watching her with those cold, unfeeling eyes._

_"_ _Help me!” She tried to scream, but she was gagged._

_They pulled her back onto the operation table, leather straps securing her to the hard cold metal surface, the sound of whirling blades and scraping metal filled her ears even as she screamed._

_The Soldier did nothing._

Maggie jerked awake, her 5 o’clock alarm pulling her from her dream. Reaching blindly for the alarm clock, she turned off the alarm and fell back against the pillows pulling the microfleece blanket back over her head. Her nightmares had been getting worse and had only picked up in intensity since she’d gotten back from Argentina. Gone were the days of picnics in the park, and root beers at the soda fountain. Now she was dreaming of the Winter Soldier, dreaming of all the terrible things he’d done, and had been done to him.

_I can’t imagine why._

She stretched, sitting back up, letting the blanket drop around her waist, and glanced around at the books and papers scattered across the bed, nearly obscuring the blankets and comforter below. The more sensitive material was locked away in her desk, and since the move from the tower to the compound, she’d insisted on biometrics for all her locking mechanisms. She wasn’t going to take any chances with what she’d found. She should destroy them, but something was stopping her, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. So she’d locked the file away, but she couldn’t lock what she knew out of her brain.

She couldn’t get what she’d seen out of her brain, She couldn’t un-know what she had learned, and it was driving her to the edge of sanity.

_Natasha warned you. Warned you not to cross the point of no return, because it meant that you could never go home, and now you know she’s right._

Go home? That was practically laughable. She would be lucky to even get out of this alive at the rate she was going presently.

Maggie groaned, hauling herself from the bed, changed into her jogging clothes and pulled on her running shoes before grabbing her identification and apartment key, phone and headphones, and heading out the door.

It was still early, so she’d be running with the legion of people out at the compound, but it was one of the many things she found that she liked about the transition between the Avengers tower and the new Avenger’s compound. Something about being in skyscrapers, looking down at the city below had made her feel completely and utterly alone. Now, closer to the ground, and with most of the compound sprawled out over several acres, she was more likely to see and interact with people.

Of course with the property being owned by the Avengers vis-a-vis Stark Industries, she had free range of the entire space, and so she could take early morning workouts without being snatched up by Hydra agents, and without having to clear her daily schedule with her security detail.

Turning on her running playlist, she started off on a brisk jog. The exertion helped her focus, helped her clear her mind, and she needed all the help she could get when it came to that department.

The weather was fair, and while cool, it hadn’t rained overnight, so the path was dry. The trees were green and lush, and the grass and brush along the running trail were thick and dense as the early morning fog rolled off the landscape and around her as she ran. It reminded her of the ranch. That was another reason she liked it. It reminded her of home. She was closer to home than she’d been in over a year, but it hurt to even think about how far away from that life and that world she was.

_Better than all the other things you could think about._

And she was back to her regularly scheduled program. Her brain and her environment weren’t giving her much to work with. It was either think about the horrible nightmare, think about the horrible things she’d learned, or think about the horrific truth that she was never going home.

Maggie paused, yanking out her left earbud at the sound of approaching footsteps. _Steve._ “You are not going to 'on your left’ me Steven Rogers!” She shouted, whirled around before he could pass her and put her hands on her hips.

Practically skidding to a stop, Steve let out a breathless laugh. “Good morning to you too.” He grinned, “So I take it Sam told you that one, huh?”

“Yes, he did. And while I didn’t intend to run into you this morning, I figured I’d seize the opportunity to say hello since it seems you’ve been avoiding me.” She said.

It was true. Since Argentina, she hadn’t seen much of Rogers. She wasn’t entirely sure if that was just the nature of the beast since they were more or less down two only Nat and Steve running the Avengers. Stark and Barton had apparently retired, Bruce was MIA, and Thor was off doing whatever it was that an extraterrestrial with a massive magical hammer did. Or if he was just avoiding her. Either possibility was likely, and even if was the latter rather than the former, she wouldn’t exactly blame him.

“I don’t think avoiding is quite the right word," Steve said.

“I mean aside from things being ass-tastically busy since May and the fact that we moved from the big city to the middle of nowhere? Yeah, I think you’re avoiding me.”

Steve sighed, nodding before looking back up at her. “I wasn’t avoiding you, I’ve been trying to give you space to work through everything.”

Maggie frowned surveying Steve critically. He believed what he was saying, Maggie could tell that much at the very least, but the words coming out of his mouth sounded like Sam Wilson. “I have been working through some of the files.” Maggie nodded agreeably, steering the discussion into a more favorable direction. She wasn’t about to throw Steve under the bus if Sam had been telling him that she was working on her mental health. It was probably better for Steve’s well being and mental health if he did think she was taking care of herself, even if that was the farthest thing from the truth.

“Oh.” Steve said brightly, “How’s that coming? Anything of note?”

“Nothing of immediate application, you would’ve heard about that. I am trying to put together a timeline between 1945 and 2014, maybe expose a pattern of Hydra operations to give us a better idea of where primary bases and secondary safe house locations were to narrow down even further where he might be hiding out.”

“Oh," Steve said again, this time with a lot less enthusiasm.

“It’s a process. But I’m making good headway.”

“Anything that you didn’t already know? Anything I should be concerned about?” Steve asked.

 _You should tell him. You should tell him what you’ve found out. Tell him what you know._ Her brain screamed at her, but Maggie ignored it. What would that do? What function would it serve? What good would come of knowing when there was nothing they could to do to change that fact? It wouldn’t help her sleep better at night if she told Steve, and it certainly wouldn’t do anything for the already strained tensions between the Avengers and the world. Sometimes an omission of certain facts was better than telling the whole truth. _You’re a goddamn hypocrite._ It was true, but it didn’t change the fact, what she knew would break the avengers, and she couldn’t be responsible for that.

“Nope. But I’ll be sure to tell you if I do come across anything pertinent." She smiled, a little too brittle and a bit too wide.

“Sounds good.” Steve nodded. “Everything else good? You liking the compound?” Steve asked, glancing around at the green rolling hills, and dense trees.

“An adjustment.”

“Yeah, I—” Steve was cut off by the sound of his phone beeping. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he sighed. “Sorry, gotta run. We’ll have to catch up later.” He rushed, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

“No worries, get to where you gotta go, Cap’,” Maggie smiled, sidestepping to allow Steve to move past her.

“Thanks, Ramirez, good to see you.”

“You too, Steve.”

And with that, he disappeared down the running path. Maggie sighed, rubbing her face before putting her earbuds back into her ear. “Yeah no, I don’t think so.” She muttered, skipping 'Enter Sandman’ on her jogging playlist before she started back down the path in Steve’s wake.

She grudgingly finished her run, went back to her room, showered changed, and settled back into her work for the day. It was only 8:00 am.

Coffee cup in hand, she paused outside the office door, surveying her domain. It was slightly less dreary than the office back in the city. It had windows overlooking the lake and a beautiful view of the tree line and hills beyond.

She’d managed to get her ugly Craigslist couch moved over with her other belongings, and it made her smile. Perhaps it was her sense of rebellion or just the fact that it was one of the few objects in the apartment that were her own, but she loved that sleeper sofa because of the gross color and stains and the whole personality it possessed that all of the modern lines and clean looks of minimalism that the Stark Aesthetic so clearly was going for did not. During the move, she’d found a couple of side tables and matching coffee table on Craigslist that was very clearly third hand, well-loved, and showing all the signs of being used with coffee rings, and nicks and chips and scratches that came with that.

Maggie had also painstakingly documented and then recreated the world map with all of the notes, pins, and documents on the largest wall of the office. Unfortunately, aside from recreating the damn thing, she hadn’t touched it since she’d moved into the compound, which all things being equal was not a good sign.

However, she had added another two journals to her collection, bringing the count up to three, which considering how much paper she’d been sifting through since she’d opened Natasha’s 'point of no return file’ and then, of course, the payload she’d acquired after Argentina, was unsurprising. There was more information, but far less that she wanted or even could share with Sam, Steve, or even Natasha.

Picking up a file from her desk and her journal, she sunk down on the couch, and dove in. It was strange really, the mundanity of it all. She’d woken up early, gone for a run, and now was drinking coffee, and sorting through files. There was nothing in there that in and of itself was nefarious or horrifying enough to give her nightmares for years, yet, here they were.

_I’m going to die, this information is going to get me killed._

Yes, that’s what Natasha had warned her about. She could’ve walked away, she _should’ve_ walked away, but she hadn’t, determined to bring Barnes home to his sister, determined to make it right. Now here she was, Becca was dead, Barnes was no nearer to being found, and she was stuck with a head full of information that could get her killed or worse.

_You need to tell someone, need to get help, seek advice, try and talk through it with someone. But who?_

“Anyone home?” Sam’s voice called from the front door.

“Where else would I be?” She called back, sitting up she closed the file before he could come to the office door.

“Damn. I still can’t believe Stark let you bring raggedy-ass couch with you.”

“Well hello to you too,” Maggie snorted, "And for your information, Stark didn’t personally check every inventory list. Since I’m not smuggling thermonuclear warheads, the couch made the cut.”

“I guess that’s fair.”

“And it’s the most comfortable piece of furniture in this goddamn compound.”

“I dunno about that, my bed is pretty damn comfortable.”

“You and Steve having fun breaking it in?” She raised an eyebrow playfully.

“Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Well. I’m glad to hear that you find Stark’s furniture selection up to snuff. I am more than happy with my shabby ass craigslist furniture.” She said.

“Fine fine. Keep the damn couch.” He laughed, sinking onto the sofa beside her. “Hi, Mags.”

“Hey, Sammie.” She smiled, “Long time no see, how’s it going?”

“Oh, you know the usual bit. How about you? How you doing? Liking the compound?”

“Why does everyone keep asking that?” Maggie shook her head.

“Cause we care about you wanna make sure you’re liking your new digs?” Sam shrugged.

“Can’t complain. It’s an adjustment, can’t go down and around the corner for Tacos, but I can also go and run to my heart’s content whenever I want, so it’s a trade-off.”

“You know you could just _make_ the tacos, here in your apartment.”

Maggie snorted, “Where’s the fun in that? Particularly if _I_ have to make an effort.” She shook her head. “What about you? Other than the comfortable bed you and Steven are breaking in, how’s the compound life treating you? I haven’t seen you, it’s been forever since we’ve had one of our sad briefings.”

“Sad briefings?” Sam echoed.

“You know the ones where we both report that we’ve found nothing and get to watch Steve choke back disappointment.”

“Oh yeah, those are so _fun._ ” Sam rolled his eyes.

“That’s why they’re called sad briefings, Sam.”

“Well, is it rude of me to say that I don’t miss the sad briefings?”

“I don’t exactly miss them either, but I miss you two jerk faces,” She said.

"Sorry, we’ve been busy.”

“No, I get that.” She paused, watching him carefully.

They’d been on somewhat better terms since Argentina. Since he’d said his piece, Sam seemed more relaxed. He was still concerned, of course, she didn’t think he would ever stop being concerned for her, but there were far less unsaid assertions now that it was all out in the open. It felt less like an ax was hanging over their heads, and things were feeling almost like they had before Riley had passed away.

Was he the person that she could confide in? What would he do if she told him what she’d found out? Did he already know? Could she count on him not to tell Steve and the rest of the team? She didn’t know for sure, but she had a feeling what her ultimate conclusion would be.

“To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Maggie asked after a moment.

“I wanted to drop by to talk to you, there’s something I need to tell you.”

 _Oh fuck._ Her heart began to thud wildly in her chest, her anxiety sending her mind spinning a mile a minute. “Ho-Kay.” She nodded, prompting him to continue you.

“I’m joining the avengers.”

Her heart stopped, “What?” She practically choked. Of all the things she’d expected to come out of Sam’s mouth that hadn’t been one of them. Should she have expected it? Probably? But to actually hear it, that was something else altogether.

Despite her reaction, Sam charged on, “Steve and the others, they want me to become an Avenger. Since the Barnes thing isn’t resolving itself anytime soon and I don’t exactly have anything going on in D.C. anymore...” he trailed off at her open-mouthed stare. “What?”

“I thought—I mean I thought you—I thought it was-” She stammered, unable to form a complete sentence.

“I know I said I wasn’t going to get involved, but things change.”

“Things change?” Maggie echoed as she rose to her feet, collecting her journal and folder, marched over to the desk.

Sam paused, taken aback. “You’re mad.”

Maggie looked away from him, shaking her head, a thousand different thing running through her head. her hand went to the chain around her neck, fingers fiddling with the two gold wedding bands. 

_You’re nothing but collateral damage, but if you tell him now, you’re putting everyone in danger, including and especially him._

“No. No, I’m not mad. Just surprised is all.” She said as slowly and evenly as she could manage

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Maggie exhaled a strangled sigh before turning back to him. “Sam, I thought you were done being a soldier, following order and all that shit?”

“This is different. Being an Avenger isn’t exactly the same thing as being some grunt in the Air Force.”

Maggie shook her head. “You tell your mom and sisters yet?

“No. Figured I should tell you first.”

“How considerate.” The words came out barbed.

“Wow, I’m an idiot," Sam muttered, shaking his head.

“What Sam?”

“I thought you’d be excited for me. Proud of me even. You know how Riley felt about Cap’, about all of it. I thought you’d understand.”

“That’s not fair. You can’t use that against me, not after all of this.” Maggie said. “I am proud of you, Sam. I just want you to be safe, and I know enough about this business to know that there’s no such thing.”

“So what, you want me to decline their offer?”

“No.” Maggie shook her head. “I didn’t say that. I want you to do what makes you happy. Just don’t ask me to be overcome with the joy at the prospect of my friend, probably my best friend being the target of every super-villain, assassin, and asshole with a gun, super suit, and a grudge.”

At this, Sam's shoulders relaxed slightly, though his body was still coiled ready to fend off any oncoming attack verbal or otherwise. “I can respect that.”

There was a long pause before Maggie spoke again. “You really should call your mother. She’s going to be able to give you the response you’re looking for, Sammie.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” He said, rising to his feet. “See you later for our brief?”

“Yeah.” Maggie nodded, “Hey, Sam.” She called after him, stopping him before he could leave. “Thank you for telling me. I do appreciate it, I’m sure you were dreading this conversation. I wish I could be happy, but you know that I am proud of you.”

“Thank you. And I understand.”

“See you this evening for our weekly brief.” She smiled.

As Sam’s footsteps faded down the hall, the smile seeped from her face, and she could feel herself sink even further into her chair. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut.

_Why am I the bad guy with this?_

Didn't anyone else see what a dangerous line they were walking? The risks and dangers of this whole super hero thing?

_You just know something that no one else does. It's not Sam's fault you're not sharing anything._

She needed to tell someone. She needed to say what she’d found out loud, to someone who’d be able to give her something approximating advice and a somewhat sympathetic ear. She'd hoped that person would be Sam. She could always count on him to give her the honest truth. But he was dating Steve, and now he was an Avenger. He was at the heart of the Avengers, and closest to the people this information would harm most. She couldn't burden him with that.

Taking several deep breaths, she pulled her phone from her hoodie and typed out a quick message. If she couldn't talk to Sam and she couldn't talk to Steve, there was really only one option open to her. 

“You wanted to practice driving?” Nat asked, walking into the garage thirty minutes later, with a slightly perplexed expression on her face.

It hadn't been one of her smoothest texts, but the cover story covered in a pinch, all things considered. “Yeah. If that fits into avengers practice.” Maggie replied, shoving her hands into her front pockets.

“I have a few minutes. You have a car in mind?” Natasha's eyes didn't leave her, always watching, always evaluating her. Did she know something was wrong? Did she know that Maggie was freaking out? Probably. But with any luck, why exactly wouldn't be a mystery in a few minutes.

“How about that Ford Truck?”

Natasha nodded, following Maggie over to the truck. “You know the way.”

They drove in silence out to the driving track. Parking, Maggie removed the audio scrambler and signal jammer that she swiped from one of the tech arsenals back at the tower out of her pocket, activated it, and set it on the seat between her and Natasha.

“What’s all this about, Ramirez?”

“I need to know nothing I say leaves this truck.”

Maggie looked up into Natasha’s face expecting some sort of amusement in her features and instead found it bent with concern. “Okay.”

“You swear?”

“You have my word.”

Maggie paused, she hadn't been expecting to get this far, to find someone (even Natasha) willing to keep this secret. She wasn't sure she could even verbalize it. Collecting her words, she began slowly. “As you know, I’ve been compiling a list, a timeline of the Winter Soldier’s operations.”

Natasha nodded, giving Maggie the courage to continue. Squeezing her eyes shut, Maggie took a deep breath and counted to ten, before opening her eyes and charging on. “December 16, 1991.” She said flatly. Natasha raised an eyebrow but said nothing to Maggie continued. “The Winter Soldier was sent on a mission, December 16, 1991, to sanction and extract, no witnesses.” Maggie took another deep breath before charging on. “December 16, 1991, was the day that Howard and Maria Stark were killed." She hesitated, meeting Natasha's gaze, unwavering and unrelenting. She couldn't turn back now. "I believe they were killed by the Winter Soldier.”

There were several beats of silence as Natasha surveyed her.

_She’s going to say I’m imagining things, or that I’ve been overdoing it. That sometimes, these things just happen. That I'm crazy or worse._

“How long have you known?”

“Just after Argen-.” Maggie stopped, her brain finally catching up with her ears. “You knew.” She couldn't believe it. 

“I did warn you about the point of no return.”

So she had, and yet here they were. But Natasha knew, Natasha had known before Maggie told her. It made sense, but Maggie couldn't shake her shock.  “But you knew," Maggie repeated.

“Have you told anyone else?”

She wasn’t going to get any further confirmation out of Natasha. Now it was all business, and she would have to focus in on the practical aspects of what this all meant.  “No.” Maggie rubbed her face wearily. “I was going to tell Steve, and I was about to tell Sam, but-” She cut herself off, shaking her head.

“But?” Natasha prompted.

"It would destroy the Avengers. Maybe not that alone, but it would drive a wedge, a deep one, and I can’t be responsible for that.”

“But you told me.”

Maggie shook her head, blinking quickly, the anxiety and tension that had been building finally determined to come out in the form of tears. “I had to tell someone I had to get out of my head. Someone else had to know.” She sniffled, wiping at her eyes. “I figured you have a more pragmatic take on these things.”

"That’s certainly one way to put.” Natasha paused, looking her over. “You’re scared.”

Maggie snorted. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“It’s the first normal reaction I’ve gotten out of you since you arrived. Including that time you almost got snatched off the street by Hydra.” Natasha’s expression grew somber. “So what’s your plan?”

“You’re assuming I have one.” Maggie exhaled a frustrated sigh, sinking down further into the driver's seat, thrumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “I told Becca I would find her brother, and that’s what I want to do, but I didn’t sign up to die trying.” She exhaled sharply through her nose, “I plan on sticking this out as long as I can, but I want to know that when shit goes sideways, I’m not relegated to the damsel in distress role.”

Natasha nodded thoughtfully, and Maggie continued. Taking a deep breath, she plunged on, “I want to survive, and I want you to teach me how.”

The air in the truck was sticky and heavy with the pregnant silence. Maggie could feel her anticipation hanging in the air as she waited for Natasha’s firm and immediate dismissal, prepared to make her case, by whatever means necessary.

“Okay.”

Maggie blinked, “Okay?”

"What? You didn’t think I’d say yes?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Natasha gave her a once over before looking out toward the driving course, “First. You should practice driving, make sure your cover story matches up to avoid arousing suspicions. Tomorrow I’ll drop by your office, and we can start then. Does that work for you?”

Maggie turned her gaze to the road in front of her and nodded, “Yes.”

Turning over the ignition, she returned the audio scrabbler and signal jammer to her pocket and proceeded with the driving course. She wasn’t going to ask Natasha why. Wasn’t going to press her for her reasoning behind why she agreed to help. She’d gotten Natasha on board, she wasn’t going to ask why. In all truth, Maggie probably didn't want to know the reason why. Ultimately, all that mattered was that Natasha was going to teach her the basics of survival. Surviving was all that mattered now.

They finished their driving practice and returned to the garage in silence. They parted ways, confirming time and place for the following day, leaving Maggie to go back upstairs and back to her work. She didn’t feel better now that it was out in the open, but she did feel better that she was drafting a plan, a fail-safe option should everything go to shit.

She couldn’t count on Sam to protect her. She’d tried that last time, and it had almost gotten her burned alive. Now that he was apart of the Avengers, it would be even more difficult for him to ensure her safety. Not that her safety was his responsibility. That was why she was going to make her own plans, that was why she was going to take this matter into her own hands. She’d come too far, knew too much, and was far too stubborn to be nothing more than collateral damage. The next time things went sideways, she planned on being ready, and she planned on coming out not just alive, but on top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do we think? Is Mags really in trouble Or just blowing it out of proportion? And BUCKY! Oh boy, you guys. These next few chapters, I have so many many many feelings. (I have the next two written and the last two heavily outlined, and it's non-stop y'all.[in both good and bad ways]). I really really can't wait to hear what you think and share the last chapters of this part! 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through this. We're going to get a bit of action soon, I promise!
> 
> Happy Reading!


	15. Brave Face Little Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Everybody Hurts by REM, Let It Be the Beatles, and The Way you look Tonight by Bing Crosby, Riverside by Agnes Obel
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1253302637/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6?si=MkU6Kt4hQ72QdDEWibw1LQ

He stood beside the Vistula River, feeling foolish. Yet, somehow, this felt right. He glanced down at the small flat stone, turning it over and over in his hand, the left hand shoved in his pocket.  

It was Rosh Hashanah, which is why he was here at the river, reciting the Tashlikh service, hoping against all hope that he might cast away his sins. It was a time of repentance, of atonement, of making right the wrongs of the year previous, to be sealed in the book of life, rather than blotted from it permanently.

How could he right the wrongs that he’d committed? Was there any possible way to atone, to seek out forgives for the horrors and atrocities committed by his hand?

If he was honest with himself, he didn’t deserve forgiveness, not when rivers of blood ran at his feet, and the weight of his actions were stacked against him. Coerced or not, he was still responsible, these deaths, these killings, these actions, even if he’d been Hydra’s puppet, he’d still had a choice, and the soldier had chosen over and over to kill and maim and destroy for Hydra.

Would casting this stone into the river really do anything? He didn’t know, he didn’t know if he was religious anymore, if he could be. Yet there was something comforting about reciting the old prayers that he had learned as a boy and still knew by heart.

He remembered how he and Steve and their families would go cast stones or bread crumbs off the Brooklyn bridge every year during Rosh Hashanah in preparation for Yom Kippur.

“...He will take us back in love, he will cover up our iniquities. You will cast all their sins into the depths of the sea.”

The words in Hebrew were slow and award on his tongue. It had been a long time since they’d been spoken by him. The language held a memory deep and rich unto itself. It reminded him of time spent around the family dinner table for Passover, Hanukkah, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and every Shabbat in between. He remembered the prayers spoken by other Jewish soldiers in the trenches. By Steve in the long nights during watch with the Commandos after his rescue. The hope and comfort that it had given them, that it had given him. He found it did nothing for him now, not like it had, not like it used to, but then again it had been a long time since then.

Had he prayed when he was the Soldier? Did the Soldier pray? No. Of course, he hadn’t, Hydra hadn’t built him for that, there was no room for prayer or religion in the world of the Winter Soldier.

Was that why the words felt hollow now? He didn’t know.

Concluding, he glanced down at the stone in his hand and then looked back up to the river and offered up a silent prayer. _For all that I am, for all that I’ve done, may I find redemption and forgives. For all those that have been wronged by me, may they find justice and peace._

Becca, Steve, Natalia, Magdalene, his sister’s family, his family, there were hundreds more he could name, thousands perhaps whose lives had been ruined by him, by the Winter Soldier. Sins and transgressions that he could never wash from his skin, black marks against him that could never be erased.

He cast the stone into the water, watching as it sank into the murky depths and then disappeared entirely.

He exhaled slowly, squeezing his eyes shut, tried to focus on the moment, and perhaps find some semblance, some measure, some iota of inner peace.

Forgiveness. Was that even possible? Could he forgive himself for all that he’d done? Would Steve? Would the world?

Furthermore, did he deserve their forgiveness? Could he earn it? He didn’t know, and moreover, he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer, though he was confident of what it would be.

Whatever the case may be, casting a stone into the river wasn’t going to change what had happened. It might carry away his sins, but he could still feel them in his mind, in his body, in his very soul. So what could he do? What could make right these wrongs? He didn’t know, but perhaps this was a start.

 

***

The summer had melted away into autumn, and as the leaves changed around her, and the weather grew colder, Maggie found that her mood likewise shifted. She was irritable, cranky, and frustrated. The search for Barnes had all but ground to a stop, with Sam, Steve, and Nat being focused on training up new Avengers, and the fact that they really hadn’t found any new leads meant that Maggie had a lot of spare time and energy. It allowed her the opportunity to focus on her survival lessons from Natasha when she had the time away from the Avengers. The lull in activity also gave Maggie a lot of time to sit and obsess over what little information she was finding out about Barnes. Mostly she just wanted to punch things, and so she trained so that she could eventually, effectively, achieve that goal.

“You looking for a sparring partner?”

Maggie turned her head to find Nat approaching the punching bags where Maggie had set up with her jump rope and work out gear. Stopping mid-jump, she winced as the rope hit the back of her legs with a sting. She looked Nat up and down, she was wearing leggings and a white tank-top, looking at ease, yet sharper than any knife Maggie dared handle. “Wouldn’t mind the practice. If you’re up for it after Avengers Day Camp.”

“Someone’s salty.”

Maggie smirked, “I feel like I’m allowed on occasion.”

“You seem to be milking that one for all it’s worth," Nat commented. “Finish up your rep while I warm up.”

“Milking it?” Maggie echoed with a light laugh, but Natasha didn’t respond. They both fell into their familiar rhythm and completed their warm-ups in silence before climbing into the sparring rink

For her part Maggie had been getting better, at least she felt like she was getting better, but was 1000% certain that Natasha would always be holding back on her, which in some small part Maggie appreciated. While being broken in half by a femme fatal may or may not be on her list of preferable ways to die, she wasn’t quite ready to buy the farm, as it would happen. Yet, Maggie was curious, could she hack it out in the real world? The ‘real world’ being someplace where she would need to fight to survive, and not the ‘real world’ as she’d known it back in the spring of 2014.

It all seemed so pointless. They weren’t getting anywhere. It was like Barnes had disappeared off the face of the earth and they were reduced to sifting through every grain of sand for even the tiniest clue of his location. And for what? To find a man who might not even remember who he was, or worse might be beyond the hope of rescue and who would have to be captured and put down like a wild animal.

_It might be better if we just stopped looking if we didn’t find Barnes at all._

“Oomph" Maggie grunted as Natasha threw her down onto the mat.

“You’re distracted.”

“Yeah. You got me.” She moaned, sitting up and shaking off the boxing gloves.

“You wanna talk about it?” Nat asked, tossing Maggie a towel and her water bottle before sinking down beside her on the floor.

“I just feel that I need to say this because we’re probably all thinking it at this point.”

“Okay, I’m all ears.”

“Have we considered the real possibility that there might be a reason Barnes doesn’t want to be found? What if he’s still working as the Winter Soldier? What if he doesn’t remember being Bucky Barnes at all?” Maggie reasoned before taking a long pull from her water bottle.

Natasha said nothing, but something passed over her face. Was it pain? Was it sadness? Was it regret? Maggie couldn’t be sure, but something else pinged in the back of her mind as disparate pieces of files and intel and just downright intuition started to knit themselves into something very nearly intelligible.

“Do you plan on telling Steve that?”

Maggie choked on her water, coughing as it went down the wrong tube, she looked over at Natasha who was watching her with interest. “Are you fucking crazy?” She managed to wheeze after a moment.

“I think it’s a valid point. If you want out, you have to tell Steve.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Never said it was fair. But he does deserve to know.”

Maggie sighed, nodding, “I know, you’re right, per usual.” She paused. It was a long shot, it probably wasn’t even right, but she had to know, her curiosity was getting the better of her, and if she didn’t ask now she might not get the chance again. “Is he worth saving? Is there a man worth saving, even in the Winter Soldier?” Maggie couldn’t look at Natasha as she asked, but she could feel the other woman’s eyes upon her, cold and steely but not entirely unkind.

“Why ask me?” Maggie could hear the eyebrow raise in the other woman’s question.

“One of 28 young ballerinas with the Bolshoi. One of 28 Black Widow agents with the Red Room.” Maggie said slowly, looking over at Natasha who was still watching her like a cat stalking its prey. If Maggie didn’t finish now, she wouldn’t get the chance again. “Hydra, The Red Room, The Wolf Spider Program, they’re all connected. You knew the Winter Soldier, he trained you, it’s in the files, but he was something else, something more...” Maggie faded off, unwilling to insinuate more, not with Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow and Avenger starring her down. Maggie blinked, looking away.

_This is it, this is how I die._

“You know, you would make a great spy if ever learned to keep your mouth shut, Ramirez," Natasha said cooly after a long pause.

It was a confirmation or the only confirmation that Maggie was going to get from Natasha. But it only made sense. The woman knew how Barnes moved, she knew where to find information, she knew all the keywords to look for, all of the different ways and different methods that the Winter Soldier and Hydra would use to avoid detection. The next logical step was that they had known each other, yet there had been other clues other hints that Maggie had seen both in Natasha’s expressions and in the documents she’d read to indicate that The Black Widow Natalia Romanov and The Winter Soldier had been more, much more than just operatives in the field together.

“You’ve gone after the Winter Soldier before.”

“Yes.”

“So you’d know if he was leaving bread crumbs for us to find him.”

“He isn’t.”

“So he _really doesn’t_ want to be found.”

“I’d imagine so.”

“Any idea why Natasha?”

There was a pause, long enough that Maggie dared to sneak a glance at the woman beside her. “The only one who would be able to answer that for sure would be James.”

 _James._ She’d used his first name. She'd never heard him use his first name. It was jarring, and it felt so vulnerable coming from Natasha. Maggie had so many questions. Why hadn’t she told Steve? Did Steve know? Why not say something before now? But Maggie didn’t ask, she knew better than to ask that. Frankly, it wasn’t any of her business, nor was it Steve’s for that matter. But Maggie did know that it would be yet another thing that James Barnes would have to sort out when and if they ever found him.

“I haven’t told anyone. It isn’t even in my journal.” Maggie said slowly.

Natasha nodded, looking up at her, “It’s not so black and white, is it anymore?” Her voice and her expression was soft, but Maggie could hear the note of appreciation in her tone.

“No.” Maggie shook her head. It wasn’t black and white, it hadn’t been for a while, but now everything seemed to be in increasingly jarring shades of grey. 

Natasha sighed. “He’s a murder and a killer, but for that matter, so am I.” Natasha paused, taking in a long and steady breath, nothing in her tone and posture, indicating anything about what their conversation might be doing to her. “Even as the Winter Soldier, he was a good man.”

The was a long silence as Maggie tried to figure out what to say next. “So what should I do, Nat?” Maggie asked. She’d come to Natasha for guidance, she needed someone to tell her what she should do, but it was quickly becoming apparent that she wasn’t going to get a clear cut answer.

“Most don’t choose this life, Ramirez, and often the only way out is death. For most of us, it’s death. If you see a chance to walk away, a chance for a clean break, take it. Without hesitation. But until then, play things close to your chest, prepare your strategy, and know when it’s time to get out.”

“And Barnes and Rogers?”

“You’ll know when you’re ready.”

“Will I?” Maggie asked, skeptically.

“As I said before, Ramirez, you’d make a good spy if you could learn to keep your mouth shut.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, “That’s why I became a therapist instead.”

Natasha shook her head, rising to her feet, “Come on.” She said, extending her hand to Maggie. “We have time to go at least two more rounds before I have to go back to ‘Avengers Day Camp,’ as you so charitably called it.” Natasha grinned, pulling Maggie to her feet.

“How’s the gang getting along?”

“They’re shaping up.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Come on Ramirez. Less talk, more focus.”

Maggie snorted but said nothing as they squared up once again to spar.

Natasha laid her out a few more times before it was time for her to return to the Avengers gym. As they parted, Maggie could feel a deep chasm opening up in her stomach. She was keeping secrets from Sam and Steve, and now they weren’t just her secret’s but Natasha’s as well.

She felt oddly honored that Natasha trusted her not to say anything to Sam and Steve. Then again, Natasha knew that she knew about Barnes and Stark’s parents, so perhaps it was a mutually assured destruction type solution to the current predicament. Nevertheless, the fact that Natasha hadn’t killed her on the spot meant that she’d reached some kind of relationship status with the other woman. Had Natasha been feeding her all of that information to see if she could or would pick up the various clues found within? Natasha hadn’t seemed at all surprised or alarmed by either of the revelations, meaning that she had likely known Maggie would find out long before Maggie did. So it was only logical that Natasha was only giving her what she wanted Maggie to see.

This, of course, left the issue of Sam and Steve. It wasn’t so much an issue as a matter of morality with those two. They were soldiers, they didn’t think the way that Natasha did, and since Maggie was withholding key pieces of information from the both of them, to avoid an implosion of the Avengers, it meant that they wouldn’t be able to help her if and when things went sideways. Maggie had serious doubts that Natasha would even help her when things went sideways. But that was the point of her survival lessons, that was the point of the training, of the preparation, and of Natasha’s warning.

_Play things close to your chest, prepare your strategy and know when it’s time to get out._

It wasn’t the best advice she’d ever been given, but it also wasn’t the worst. The critical thing was is that it would keep her alive. So the question was to know when she should get out. When was the breaking point? When did she decide that this was it? How would she know? Would she know? Or was it something that she’d have to train her gut to and hope that her instincts served her well?

Maggie was tired. She was ready to walk away. They weren’t getting anywhere, the world wasn’t as friendly to the avengers anymore, things were looking grim, and she found that she was afraid. She’d seen too much, she knew too much, there were some things now that would likely haunt her for the rest of her life. The images from the bunker in Argentina was enough to scar anyone for life, but she had that and then some.

_But I made Becca a promise to bring her brother home._

She had made a promise to Becca, and for that matter, a promise in some small part to herself and to Steve. Only now the stakes had changed. This wasn’t so she could get her life back, this was so she could walk away alive at all.

_Not so black and white now any more is it?_

That was for damn sure.

Maggie wanted to sink to the bottom of the sea and leave all of this behind. Where was that fortress of solitude again? That seemed like a good option right about now. However, since no icy fortress in the arctic nor a jungle getaway in the tropics seemed particularly forthcoming, Maggie decided to return to her apartment and get back to work.

Maggie spent much of the afternoon engrossed in satellite scans over the old soviet block, circling or X-ing out Hydra bases and hot spots of activity. It wasn’t anything new, she and Sam had poured over this set of scans a thousand times, but for the sake of double and triple checking, she was going through them again.

She was so focused on her work that she almost didn’t hear Steve come into the apartment, and hover in the doorway to her office.

“Mind if I come in?” he asked, his voice low and small.

“Steve?!” Maggie did a double-take as he appeared in the doorway to her office. He looked like absolute hell. He was dressed in a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans, but his hair was mussed, and his eyes look puffy and swollen. She surveyed him, bracing for the bad news, for the calamity, for the tragedy that had somehow befallen the avengers without Maggie noticing. But that wasn’t it, wasn’t he supposed to be in New York with Becca’s kids for the holiday? “Steve, what’s going on? What are you doing here? I thought you were going to be with the Proctors for Rosh Hashanah?”

“Wanted to let them celebrate without me since this is the first year without—” He stopped himself. “And anyway I just got in from D.C.”

Maggie nodded, watching as he walked from the door to the couch, sinking down onto it like he or it might break without special care. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything new for you.” She paused, taking a deep breath, her conversation with Natasha from earlier in the afternoon still weighing heavy on her mind. _If you want out, you’re going to have to tell Steve._ She did want out, the only problem was that Sam was wading even further into this, and like it or not she still felt a deep and unyielding loyalty to Sam, and in some small part to Steve. Could she do it? Could she really tell Steve that she was done? Could she tell Steve that his best friend didn’t want to be found and that it was just better to give up? Maggie wasn’t sure she could, not now and perhaps not ever.

Before she could speak, Steve started again, “Part of Rosh Hashanah is self-reflection and repentance. I wanted to ask your forgiveness and ask for your help.”

Maggie felt a lump form in her throat. He wanted to apologize to her? Her? After all that she’d done? With all that, she was hiding from him? It felt wrong. She rose unsteadily to her feet, “Sure Steve, I”m just going to close and lock the door if that’s okay, so we’re not disturbed.” her voice sounded shrill, almost edging on manic, but if Steve noticed he didn’t say anything.

Steve nodded, watching quietly as she moved around the office.

“May I sit next to you?”

Again he nodded, moving over to allow her to sit down beside him. Maggie didn’t say anything, watching as Steve turned a compass over and over in his hands.

“I want to apologize for what happened with Becca, it was wrong of me to keep that from you and even worse that I expected you to understand my reasoning.” Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but Steve continued. “And I want to apologize for everything that has happened to you because of me and because of Bucky.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “You’ve done far more than I’ve had any right to ask of you, and I’ve not been very vocal about how appreciative I am or very good at acknowledging your sacrifices. I should never have gotten you involved, and I”m sorry.”

Maggie said nothing. Did he know? Did he know that she wanted to walk away? Was he giving her permission? She didn’t know, but right now that didn’t seem to be the appropriate thing to bring up. Instead, she focused on the first part of the apology, the part about Becca. She’d mellowed considerably since march, but she appreciated his apology all the same because it recognized that he’d hurt her and he was trying to set it right. It was all that she could ask of him, all that she could ask of anyone. “I accept your apology,” She paused, “and I would like to offer one of my own. I haven’t been a very good or very understanding friend recently, and I am sorry, my behavior toward you was unacceptable, you were hurting and grieving, and had every reason to want to keep sensitive information in as tight a circle as possible. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, his head and eyes down, focused on the compass he was turning over and over in his hands.

“You said you needed my help?” Maggie asked as gently as she could. Steve looked so fragile as if the slightest sound might break him.

Steve said nothing. This was familiar, the silence, the long deep silence like he was drawing in a breath and finding the strength to say what He needed to say. “Sam told me your granddad had the same thing Peg...” He paused, took a deep breath to control the tremor in his voice before he charged on. “The same thing Carter has. How’d...how’d you deal with that?”

 _Oh Shit. ‘I Just got back from D.C.’_ He’d been flying back and forth between NY and DC since May after the whole Sokovia incident, trying to put out fires. He must’ve stopped by to see Margaret Carter, and judging by his emotional state, it had not gone well.

“Well.” She began slowly, uncertain of how to begin. She clasped both hands in her lap between her knees. “It was hard. I was in college and far away and I couldn’t visit him as often as I wanted. When I could...well...he had his good days and his bad days. By the end, he had more bad days than not. That was when it was the most difficult. It was painful. He wouldn’t remember me. He normally told me I looked like his granddaughter, sometimes thought I was his daughter, my mother, who had been dead for almost six years at that point.” She explained slowly.

“What would you do?” He asked with a sniffle.

“When I was there? Play along. Play the part he needed me to play. It was the only thing I could do for him. Then I would go home and cry. He’d raised me, and near the end, he didn’t even know who I was, didn’t even know who he was, and what he meant to me.” She said. “It was hard to see him like that, and it was hard to make myself go see him, but I did because it’s what needed to happen.”

Steve nodded. “I’m losing her. She’s slipping away. Sometimes she remembers I’m alive. Other times....” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can keep putting her through that, I can’t make her live through the realization that I’m alive. That after all that time I’m back. Every time I go, it’s harder to justify when she remembers less and less. It was 70 years for her...but for me...and now that Bucky is...back...and with SHIELD. There’s so much I want to tell her...so much that I want to ask her and talk about it’s just...” He paused, exhaling a shaking breath. It was taking everything he had to hold back tears. “It’s just not fair to do that to her.”

_Shit._

This situation was nothing like hers. Steve had been gone for seventy years, and for him to show up in the last few years of Carter’s life...there was no way for this to resolve itself. “Nothing about that disease is easy or fair or rational, Steve.” She paused, chewing her lip. “At some point, you have to ask, how much of this is for your comfort and how much of it is for hers? Learning to let go, before they’re actually gone. Grieving for them before they pass away. Playing whatever role they need you to play. That’s all you can do for them, and for yourself.”

“Thanks for that.” He said shortly, his head still down. She couldn’t see his expression to read it.

“I’m sorry that’s not the answer you want to hear.” She explained, reaching out hesitantly she put her hand on his shoulder.

“But it’s an honest one.” He sniffled, stowing the compass in his pocket. “It’s the one that I needed to hear from someone I trust.”

 _Trust. Yeah._ Maggie nodded, a knot twisting in her stomach.  _If only you knew Steve._ “Whatever you need Steve.”

She couldn’t help but think about the conversation she’d had only hours before with Natasha. Barnes didn’t want to be found, but she was too much of a damn coward to tell Steve that herself. Wasn’t it more of a mercy to just continue looking? Wasn’t she doing the right thing by not voicing her suspicions about Barnes and just plugging along trying to find the guy, futile though it may be?

“What if.” He began softly, almost so quietly that Maggie didn’t hear him. “What if we never find him. Or worse...he...he doesn’t know me. With Becca gone and with Peg...I just...I just want _someone_ who knew me as...” He shook his head, turning away from her.

Maggie watched him practically collapse, hunching his shoulders, drawing his legs inward, making himself as small as possible as if he was trying to shed the massive body that made him Captain America and return to being Steve, just Steve.

“We’re going to find him, Steve," Maggie said adamantly, drawing her legs up on the couch, she scooted closer to him. “We _are_ going to find him, and he’s going to remember you.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “You have my word.” She might be lying, she might think that they were never going to find him, but that didn’t matter. Steve needed hope. Needed a reason to keep going, and if it meant that she compromised her integrity for a white lie, then she would do it. _Don’t let him forget who he is, beneath all of the Captain America bullshit. Make sure he remembers that there is life, beyond all of that waiting for him._ That’s what Becca had said. That’s what she’d told her the last time they’d spoken.

Maggie put her arms around his shoulders, holding him tight. “I see you. Sam sees you.” She murmured practically climbing into his lap, she pulled him into an embrace. “We see you, and so will Bucky. I promise.” Steve nodded wordlessly, nearly catatonic, he just fell into her. Maggie stroked his head, running her fingers through his hair as his shoulders shook from the effort of holding back tears.

“It’s okay to cry, Steve. It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling.” She whispered as tears started welling in her eyes.

She missed Becca, she missed her grandfather, she missed Riley. She missed Suzanne and Bill and everyone she’d ever loved and lost who’d been a mentor and a friend. They would know what to do. They would know how to make this better, how to heal the hurt that Steve was feeling. She was not enough. Not on her own.

It had been an exhausting year and a half. How much longer would it take for them to find Barnes? How much could they endure? At what point would the costs outweigh any benefit? Maggie didn’t know.

Steve’s phone beeped and Maggie clambered off him as he removed it from his pocket and examined the screen. He cleared his throat before answering. “Rogers here.”

Maggie moved to the opposite side of the couch to give Steve some space. It was another mission, she could tell as Steve’s posture and demeanor changed, as he returned to being Captain Rogers, Captain America, the living legend. After a moment, he hung up and looked at her. “I have to go. Sorry.” He said, rising to his feet. His face was still blotchy, but that

“I’ll be here when you get back. Be safe?”

“I’ll do my best.” He nodded.

There was something unmistakably brave in his expression. Not heroic, not the self-assured image of Captain America with his Howling Commandos that she had seen in the newsreels and the propaganda. That wasn’t bravery. It was this hurting man, picking up the shield and charging headfirst into danger, not because he wanted to, but because he knew that it was expected of him. Charging into danger so that others didn’t have to.

She nodded and watched as he unlocked the office door and walked out. Maggie exhaled slowly, sinking down further into the couch cushions.

Maggie didn’t have a choice in this. She knew, Natasha knew, and she was reasonably sure that Steve knew that they weren’t going to find Barnes, but Maggie had to Try, had to keep fighting and keep going even though it seemed hopeless, it was the only way this could end, it was the only way this was going to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think? No ONE absolutely no one is having a good time in this chapter, I swear. Poor Mags, is being torn approximately five directions, and then Bucky, poor Bucky (what else is there to say). We have three more chapters! 
> 
> Can’t wait to hear what you think! Happy Reading!


	16. New Year's Update

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> Recommended Listening: I Am A Rock by Simon and Garfunkel, Don’t Worry 'Bout Me by Frank Sinatra, Hey You, Pink Floyd, A Million Years Ago by Adele, You’ll never Walk Alone by Judy Garland, You’ll Never Walk alone by Johnny Cash, Auld Lang Syne by Dougie Maclean
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6?si=-XbJP2vST_efAYxha582aQ

 It was New Year’s Eve. It was the first New Years Eve in a while that he could remember where he was in a place he intended to stay more than a week, or even a month. He’d been in Romania since November. It had initially been a temporary thing, but he found that he liked Romania, the people, the food, the location, the general culture of keeping your nose out of other people’s business, by in large.

He’d spent a better part of the day hauling cinderblocks up the twenty flights of stairs to build shelves. They’d also make good weapons if it came to that.

He paused, glancing around at the efficiency apartment. It was a shitty apartment, peeling yellowed wallpaper, water stains, chipped and missing tiles, crumbling plaster, leaky faucets with questionable hot water, and cabinets with doors hung crooked. Yet, he found he was content. It wasn’t fancy, but it was the closest to home he’d felt since he’d left Brooklyn in 1942. He’d papered the windows, that had been day one. For both privacy and security. He’d also spent much of the first few days mapping out escape routes, and trajectories from the various floors to the next roof over, should he have to make a quick escape. But then he’d started collecting kitchen items. A pot, knife, bowl, spoon, and cutting board had been his first purchases. He’d thrifted them for basically pennies, but they’d been selected by him. He’d made soup or rather had attempted to make soup.

Then he’d found an old mattress. He’d settled for sleeping on the floor with the sleeping bag. But the mattress would serve well as a shield if need be, and anyway his back was giving him hell because of the prosthesis, so the extra padding, while he slept, was a welcome relief.

Little by little, he’d collected things. A couch with miss-matched cushions, more plates, bowls, and utensils, a table and chair, a lamp. Each piece making him feel more human, more like a person rather than a fugitive on the run.

Most of it had been salvaged or thrifted. It really was amazing to him what people were willing to throw away, but was ultimately quite beneficial to his ends. He’d been looking for a shelf of some kind when he’d found the pile of discarded cinderblocks and plywood, and he’d figured it would do better than anything else he could find.

He winced. His shoulder and back were twinging and throbbing. He’d overused the arm, and his body was paying the price. But it had been worth it, at least to his mind, building, constructing, creating rather than the alternative. It felt _nice_ if such a word could be applied. It was familiar and comforting in a way, which was rare in and of itself.

The late afternoon into the early evening had been occupied with how exactly he wanted to set up the cinderblock shelves, arranging and rearranging them like a child playing with blocks and Lincoln logs. Now with the shelves completed, he had moved on to packing away his go bag in the floorboards by the door to the balcony.

He’d chosen a good day. He couldn’t own to having put that much thought into the day or what it would mean, but the streets below were crowded and noisy, and the sound echoed up to his perch high above. People up and down the street and all in the apartment building were celebrating New Years. It was the perfect time for him to rip up floorboards and make more noise than he would otherwise be comfortable making.

Creating a narrow gap in the floorboards to slip his go back into, he then turned to the bag. He had accumulated an impressive array of...well...trash if he was honest, but it was well-intentioned garbage. A leaf or a flower pressed between the pages of his journal, print outs from his research, the Smithsonian brochure, newspaper clippings, receipts with notes scribbled on the back, a small stone from the banks of the Vistula, the pink scrunchies now snagged and ratty, and any other number of odds and ends that he’d collected and stuffed in the bottom of his bag.

Unzipping the largest of the compartments, he grimaced as the zipper caught. Pulling off his left glove with his teeth, he tried to manipulate the fabric and the zipper. The zipper gave way under one of his tugs, and the contents of the bag spilled across the counter and onto the floor.

"Damn it," he muttered crouching down to pick up the papers and journal that had fallen onto the floor.

Picking up the first few pieces of paper, he paused as he flipped over Becca’s obituary, the group photo.

It felt like a gut punch, and he sunk the rest of the way to the floor. He hadn’t looked at it since the night he’d found out that she’d died, and he had done his best not to think about it much since. But he’d kept it, and tucked it into the pages of his journal. He had carried it with him, though what sort of comfort it was supposed to bring, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was carrying a little piece of her, a small reminder of someone who had loved him long before 1945 and now, long after. He surveyed the grainy print out carefully, marking each face, and how they smiled brightly at the camera. Had she known then? Had any of them known that Becca was dying? If they had, none of the faces showed it. They all looked happy and content. Pleased with themselves, all dressed in 1940s attire, a mere echo of the past, but a definite embodiment of the present and everything that he had missed.

He stopped, a face in the crowd catching his eye.

 _No. It can’t be._ How could he have missed it before?

Riffling through the papers, he’d dropped and then his journal, he removed a single scrap of paper and placed it beside the group photo from the obituary.

It _was_ her. It was Magdalen Ramirez, standing in a family photograph with his sister. She was standing toward the back, near the end of the row, her hand and arm in a cast and sling. She wasn’t wearing her hair in the normal braids, but victory rolls as she smiled broadly. It was her.

He exhaled slowly, squeezing his eyes shut. She was dead. Suzanne and Bill, he’d seen it in their eyes. There was the virtual ofrenda the volunteers of Last Chance had constructed for Ramirez. They’d mourned her. He’d mourned her. She was dead. She was dead, and it was his fault.

He opened his eyes again, focusing down on the two photographs. She was dead, yet here she was in Becca’s family photograph.

Equal parts of relief and anger washed over him. How could he have been so blind? Why hadn’t he realized before that she was alive? He’d mourned for her, carried her around with him as one of the many victims of the Winter Soldier as one of _his_ victims.

 _Wilson._ It was the only explanation. Ramirez had listened to him, called Wilson after he’d left, and then Wilson and Rogers had saved her and declared her dead to keep Hydra from coming after her. He glanced down back at the photograph, at the sling she wore. Of course not before Hydra had managed to torture her and burn her house to the ground.

_It just means that’s you have one less death on your conscience._

Somehow, selfishly, this felt worse. Her presence in the photograph didn’t just mean that Ramirez was alive, it meant that Ramirez was alive and had known his sister. Not only that but had likely been introduced to his sister after she’d been tortured and declared dead.

How had Rogers managed that one? _“Here’s the woman your brother left for dead, why don’t you two have a chat?”_

Why introduce them at all? The logical explanation was that Ramirez was helping Rogers track him down. But that didn’t explain her presence in the photograph, in a family photograph none the less. It indicated something more than a passing acquaintance, that they had been friendly with one another, or perhaps even friends. What had she told Becca about him? Surely Steve hadn’t let this woman break his sister’s heart. Certainly Rogers had had more sense than to allow her to tell Becca all of the horrifying, terrible things that he’d done.

 _She doesn’t know what I am._ That had been one of the few things that he’d found solace in, those days right after he’d found out Becca had passed. She’d died ignorant of what he’d become. Or at least he’d hoped.

He could remember her watching him with those wide and trusting eyes, knowing that he would never lead her astray. Or if he did, he’d be there to get her out of it again. She’d trusted him, wholly, completely, and without hesitation. Now she was gone. Now the only thing that remained was the whispers of what he had been and the realities of what he had become. Had it been so wrong of him to think that perhaps his sister had been spared that? The realities of what he was? Was it wrong of him to have drawn comfort from that fact, only now to have that one consolation, that one glimmer of a silver lining to this whole situation be torn away?

_No. You don’t get to think like that. You don’t deserve to hope. You don’t get a say in how your sister remembers you. You forfeited that right when you decided to go north. When you decided not to go home to her._

It was a choice he had made, and a choice he now had to live with. If Ramirez had told his sister that he’d left her to die at the hands of Hydra if Steve had told her that he’d nearly killed him that would be the truth, and that’s what his sister deserved. That’s the only thing he’d left for her to find, the only thing left of him to remember.

"Damn it.” He muttered wiping at his face and the tears that streaked his face before turning back down to the photograph.

There she was smiling, like she hadn’t her life destroyed, like she hadn’t been declared dead, like she wasn’t having her picture taken with the sister, with the family of the man who was the cause of all of it. What had she told Becca? What did her presence in the photograph mean about his sister’s relationship with Ramirez? What did any of it mean? He didn’t know. He could barely stand the thought.

Wordlessly he picked his journal out of the pile of debris and turned to the pages he’d written for her. He’d written down what he’d learned about her, written down what he’d remembered about her, written down what he felt about her. It all felt so personal, and now that he knew she was alive, it felt wrong, invasive, nearly a violation. He moved to rip them out but stopped as he saw the sticky note she’d left initially for him on the first page. _'Easier to write things out than keep them all in your head. Thanks again for your help with the roof. ~Maggie.’_

The yellow post-it was dirty and showing signs of wear, the glue that secured the sticky note to the page was hardly adhesive anymore. Her handwriting smeared by dirt, grime, and exposure was still visible. This was something he didn’t want to keep in his head, it was better that they remained on the page, frozen forever in ink. Picking up a pen, he scratched out the date of birth and date of death, scrawling 'Status: Alive’ in the margins. Tucking the obituaries back in their respective places he shut the journal and leaned back against the counter with a heavy sigh.

Why was this affecting him like this? What did it matter that she wasn’t dead? What was one life weighed against the scores of others he’d taken as the winter soldier? Hadn’t he destroyed her life anyway? He couldn’t help but think of the online ofrenda, and the distraught faces of Bill and Suzanne on the news. Hadn’t he destroyed the lives of the people of Last Chance Ranch?

_It doesn’t matter._

Stuffing the journal in the backpack, he placed the bag in the hole he’d created in the floor and replaced the board on top. He sat silently on the floor, watching the fireworks through the papered windows, wincing at the sound of rocket fire.

           

***

 

Sam, Steve, and Nat were on a training exercise with the rest of the Avengers. Just as well, she didn’t much feel like celebrating. That really had been the mood since Becca had passed. They hadn’t celebrated Steve’s birthday, Maggie hadn’t bothered with putting up the ofrenda, and certainly hadn’t done anything for her birthday. She’d made something of an effort for thanksgiving, but all the winter holidays had been a wash, even though there had been some feeble attempt at Hanukah, considering there were now several practicing and non-practicing Jewish people residing in the Avengers compound. However, training and missions had completely ruined all plans.

For her part, Maggie had been keeping busy, doing her work with Steve and Sam to track down Barnes with absolutely no success. She’d also been working with Natasha learning, preparing, and waiting for what felt like was inevitable. It was part of the reason she was packing her go-bag.

Passports and other identification, cash, water bottle and water purifying system, gloves, hat, lightweight jacket, first aid kid, hygienic products, knife, multi-tool, machete, flashlight with spare batteries, burner phone, duct tape, paracord, amongst other things. She’d also packed away her photos, her grandmother’s our lady of Guadalupe statue, her grandfather’s rosary, and Riley’s dog tags.

Maggie paused, sitting down at the desk, started rifling through her papers. Her journals were stacked neatly in a pile and would be going in the go-bag as well. Reaching into a drawer, she stopped, withdrawing a worn envelope, still sealed.

 _To Magdalene Ramirez_ , was written in Becca’s careful scrawl on the front.

“Fuck” Maggie breathed, setting the envelope reverentially on the desk in front of her, combing her hands through her hair. She’d completely forgotten about the envelope that Steve had given her from James Martinez-Proctor. Between Argentina and moving from the tower to the compound on top of everything else, it had been shoved into a box and left for later.

 _What could it be?_ Maggie felt her stomach twist and her heartache. Even her throat felt tight as tears started to preemptively form.

Picking up the envelope, she broke the seal and removed the contents: a handwritten note and a flash drive. Unfolding the letter, Maggie found that it was from Becca’s son, James. It read:

Dear Magdalene,

Mother wanted me to give you the jump drive. It has some photos and things she thought you might like. I also wanted to personally say thank you. You got our mom talking about her past and about our family in a way we never could have imagined was possible. She spoke fondly of you and the friendship you shared, and it gave her tremendous comfort and strength in her final days.

You will always be apart of our family, and will always be welcome here. Thank you again, for everything you did for her and for the entirety of our family. We are forever in your debt.

 Yours,

         James

 

Maggie put aside the note, her hands shaking she plugged the flash drive into the computer and waited for the folder to load. Opening the driver, a video titled “Play me First” popped up.

She clicked on it, and Becca appeared on the screen.

“Hello, Maggie dearest,” Becca began, and Maggie could feel her throat start to seize with tears. “It’s strange to think that you’ll be watching this after I’ve gone, weeks, months, maybe even years after the fact. I hope you don’t wait that long, but I do hope that this finds you in a moment of doubt or uncertainty and that I can provide you with the comfort and support you seek.” Becca paused, “I’d like you to close your eyes, Maggie, and imagine that you’re sitting on my couch in my apartment in Brooklyn. Go ahead, close your eyes.” Maggie did as instructed, wiping at the tears that had started to stream.

"All right.” Becca continued. “What’s there to be said that hasn’t been said before? We’ve passed a many wonderful hours together, talking, and laughing, and I think grieving. I supposed first and foremost, I should acknowledge the enormous pressure you’ve put on yourself, on both my behalf and on Steven’s. I know you feel responsible for finding my brother or not finding my brother. I appreciate the time and effort and energy that you’ve spent. But I have to tell you, if you haven’t figured out for yourself by now, no one could ever make Bucky do anything he didn’t want to do. He’s stubborn, the two of you have that in common. Don’t beat yourself up, he’ll find his way home in his own time, you both will. You don’t have to carry this weight, this burden that you’ve placed on yourself. Carry it only as far as you want but not an inch further. You don’t have an obligation to Steve or to me or to anyone to do anything you don’t want to do. Your determination, your strength, your capacity for love, and kindness in a world that should have made you hard and bitter, it’s part of what makes you who you are. But Magdalene, dearest, you have to learn to let go. You have to let these old wounds heal. It’s not a betrayal, it’s not forgetting it’s allowing yourself not to be trapped in your past. It’s allowing yourself to live. You have so much left to live for, don’t waste it waiting for someone to come home.

I love you, my dear. I know you’re hurting, but someday it won’t as much, and I hope you can look back at our time fondly and remember the good times. Take care, good luck. Love you very much...goodbye.”

The recording ended, and Maggie opened her eyes as she exhaled a slow, shuddering breath. Tears slipped down her cheeks, the screen blurring in and out of focus as she tried to look at the contents of the files.

There were photos, scanned photos from the family album, the picture of Becca and Bucky on the front steps amongst other family portraits and candids of Steve and Bucky and Becca together. There were also digital photographs that had been taken throughout her and Becca’s time together: the 4th of July family picnic, during Maggie’s birthday celebration, and Hanukkah. She could see it now, see the slow but steady decline in Becca’s health in the photographs. How had she not seen it then? She’d been too close, unwilling to see what was happening right in front of her.

Sniffling, and wiping at the tears Maggie selected a handful, printing them out on the photo printer, she shoved them into the corresponding pages, yanking the flash drive and placing it in her backpack along with her journals. She couldn’t help but think of Becca’s words.

_Carry it only as far as you want but not an inch further...you have to learn to let go._

Let go. Learn to let go. There would come an inevitable point where she would know it was time, time to let go, time to run away when she’d been fighting so valiantly to bring Barnes home. But she didn’t want to let go, she was afraid to let go. Could she do it? Could she let go of what had consumed her life for the past two years and just disappear into the night like a wisp of smoke? Maggie didn’t know, but then again, she might not have a choice. Her very survival might depend on it. Wasn’t that why she was here, packing a go-bag by herself New Year's Eve? Wasn’t that why she’d spent the last six months learning survival techniques and training?

Fundamentally it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if she _could_ do something, it was a matter of what she was _willing_ to do to survive, the world wasn’t going to give her a choice.

Maggie wrapped her self up in her cardigan, head on her knees, squeezing her Captain America stress doll. Her left hand ached, her heart ached, her whole body ached, and she just sat in her desk chair, as tears slipped down her face and she hummed Auld Lang Syne to herself. There were no fireworks, no glasses of champagne, no parties, no kisses at midnight. Just her, here in this office, in this place that she couldn’t entirely call home or work. She sighed as the clock chimed midnight, rising to her feet she set the stress doll down and turned off the desk lamp. Picking up her go-bag, she slipped it into the front hall closet before wandering back to her bedroom. Sliding between the cool sheets in the cold, dark room, she stared at the ceiling, feeling too awake to sleep and too emotionally exhausted to think about doing anything else for the rest of the night. She was happy to see 2015 go, and she could only hope and pray that whatever 2016 was to bring, it would be better than all of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO BUCKY KNOW THAT MAGS IS ALIVE! This was such a huge plot point to put in PT. II. Can I share a secret? Originally I wasn't going to have him figure it out until the beginning of part three (or at the same time he found out about Becca), but this felt so much better when I wrote it out this way. (And a bit nicer to poor Bucky). Also, OH MY GOD. I honestly don't know what I'd do if I were in Mag's place with that video letter from Becca. Anyway, now that I'm done screaming, I'd love to hear what y'all think!
> 
> We have two more chapters in this part y'all! Remember this is a four-part ordeal, so I promise, we're not nearing the end, merely a transition for our heroes.


	17. The Deep Breath Before the Plunge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance' and is Part II of IV of my "Find Your Way Home" Series. So if you're confused, that's why.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Life is a Highway by Rascal Flats, Hotel California by The Eagles, You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet Bachman-Turner Overdrive, The Seashores of Mexico by George Strait, Wide Open Spaces by the Dixie Chicks, The Unforgiven by Metallica, Run Boy Run by Woodkid
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1253302637/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6?si=2xjbBC63Qu2jhmvoJQaOwQ

 “Life is a highway, I wanna ride it all night long!” Maggie sang-shouted over the rush of the wind and the nearly maxed out volume on her little car’s even smaller stereo.

It was cliche, but she didn’t care. The sun was warm on her skin, the blue skies stretched on for miles in front of her on the open road, the wind whipped around her, blowing her hair in her face and around the car, and she was winding her way through small-town U.S.A. She was on her way to the McDonald’s Observatory in Fort Davis, Texas.

Adjusting her sunglasses, she started humming along to Wide Open Spaces, glancing out at the road before her.

She smiled. She wanted to laugh. That sensation of captured air in her chest, waiting to be expelled welling and growing until she felt like she was going to explode. Her smile broadened into an even wider grin. She hadn’t felt this good in months, probably even years. She wasn’t sure if it was the weather, the change in scenery or just the feeling of absolute freedom out on the open road.

This had been a good choice, and a long time coming.

Sometime in late February or early March, Maggie had announced she was going on vacation.

 _“I’m tired, I'm done, I need a break from this place. I just nend to be out in the open air.”_ She’d told Sam and Steve at the end of yet another one of their “Sad briefings.” She needed a change of pace, she needed to step away from it all, and that wasn’t going to happen if she was trapped in the Compound.

 _“What are you thinking?”_ Sam had inquired, although Maggie was reasonably sure it was only with half-hearted interest.

_“I wanna take a road trip down to the Davis Mountains. And I want all three of us to go.”_

_“_ _A road trip, from New York to Texas in that rickety old Honda Accord you purchased last month? Really Mags?”_

Sam had been skeptical. The idea of being trapped in the car with anyone for that long induced sweating and the shakes in Sam, but Maggie had been persistent.

_“Come on, Falcon, it’ll be an adventure, and it’ll be a nice break where no one will be shooting at us.”_

Ultimately, Steve had been the deciding vote. _“It’ll be a nice change of pace, we should clear our schedule for a few weeks away from all of this.”_

So it had been decided, they’d go sometime in the second half of June. Just before it got too hot down in Texas, and so they’d be able to spend Steve’s birthday together.

Then Lagos, Nigeria had happened. She’d heard about it on the news long before they’d staggered single file into her office, collapsing on the grubby couch. Maggie hadn’t said anything, and instead had locked the doors, and climbing onto the couch between them, allowed them to rest their heads on her shoulders, waiting for whatever was to come. They’d gone looking for Barnes, and they’d found Brock Rumlow. Not precisely the trade they’d hoped for, never mind the lives lost due to the bomb vest Rumlow had been wearing.

The media firestorm had been swift, terrible, and unrelenting. For good reason, but all the same, it seemed that it was never-ending. Ever since Sokovia, things had been different, and it didn’t appear the Nigeria situation was going away any time soon. The UN was getting involved, it looked like the Avengers weren’t going to make it this time, not without a serious intervention.

Maggie’s suspicions had been confirmed when Sam and Steve had once again slunk into her office and sunk down on the couch. _“I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to stray too far from the compound.”_ Steve had finally announced after a good thirty minutes of dead silence.

 _“We can’t afford to be off the grid that long.”_ Sam had added.

 _"So should we cancel, or should I just go alone?”_ Maggie had ventured.

 _“You should go, we can even fly you down in one of Stark’s planes if you want.”_ Sam had offered.

_“Kinda defeats the purpose of a road trip Sammie. I’ll drive, my phone has GPS, and I’ll schedule check-ins.”_

There had been a lot of long, very stern conversations, but ultimately Sam had relented with Steve’s blessing, and she’d packed and headed out on the road by herself, with her time table, and scheduled check-ins. Now she’d been on the road for about four days and had enjoyed every minute of it. Eating and sleeping when she wanted to, pulling over to check out stupid roadside attractions. She’d gone through Ohio to see the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame and was disappointed that she didn’t have any plausible way to map her route out to see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine. _Next time though, definitely going through Kansas and I’m taking Sam and Steve with me, damn it._

“You Can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” She sang along with the Eagles, even mimicking the sound of the guitar solo.

_Boy, isn’t that the truth._

Since she’d headed out on the road she’d tried not to think about work, about Barnes, about the Avengers, about all of the stuff that had dragged her into a mess so big and massive and complicated that spending time driving around in a janky 1997 Honda Accord counted as a vacation and well deserved time off.

The song ended, and she pulled off at a rest stop to fill up with gas. Pupping gas, she looked through her phone, and found she had a text message from Sam. 'call me when you get the chance.’

Her stomach turned and returning the gasoline nozzle to the pump, she typed in Sam’s number and put the phone up to her ear.

“Hey, Mags," Sam answered. His voice was low and even. Nothing to indicate that there was anything wrong, yet her mind was still reeling, as she waited for the shoe to drop.

“Hey, Sammie.”

 “How’s the drive going?”

“Good. In Oklahoma, I have a few more hours before I get to Tulsa.” She answered, her eyes scanning the gas station, looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might mean trouble. Her senses were on high alert. Maggie paused, waiting for Sam to say something, anything that might prove her wrong. “What’s happened, Sam?” She asked. There was no response. “Sam?”

“I’m here.” He said slowly. It was a heavy sound, weighted with everything he was getting ready to say. It was the same tone he’d used the first time they’d spoken after Riley was KIA, and Maggie could feel herself holding her breath, waiting for the world to collapse around her.

“What’s going on, Sam?”

“Things are looking bad Mags. Sokovia is biting everyone in the ass. For good reason, but uhhh,” He paused. “Yeah, until we figure this thing out you might wanna make yourself scarce, stay in Texas for a little while. When we get back from England, I’ll get ahold of you.”

“England?” Her mind raced.

“Carter passed.”

Maggie’s heart stopped altogether. “Oh shit.” She breathed, sinking down onto the hood of the car.

“Yeah.”

“How’s Steve?”

“As you might expect. Don’t worry, I won’t let him get into anything too stupid.” Sam said as if that was supposed to reassure her.

“Famous last words.” Maggie shook her head. “How are you holding up?”

“Just trying to take care of the people I love.” He replied.

It was a cop-out bullshit answer, and they both knew it, but as Maggie wasn’t physically present to help out, she wasn’t in any sort of position to lecture him about anything without it devolving into hypocrisy. “Okay.” She began slowly, measuring her words. “Take care of yourself, Sam. Steve’s your partner, but your health and happiness are important too.” Maggie said as gently as she could.

“I know Mags.” Sam sounded exhausted.

Maggie could feel her chest constricting. She wanted to give Sam a hug, she wanted to give them both hugs. All of the excitement and joy and happiness she’d been feeling had seeped away, leaving a hollow pit in it’s wake. Guilt surged into the chasm, filling her up, threatening to consume her entirely. She should be there, she should be there with them to help them through this. She should never have gone away. _What could you do? You’re not an Avenger, you’re not a lawyer, and you certainly don’t have any powers over life, death, or Alzheimer's._

"You still with me?” Sam’s voice called out.

“Yeah sorry.” She stammered, “I’ll let you go and text you when I get to my checkpoint.”

“I’ll be on my way to England by then, but will still have access to text messages.”

“Sounds good.” She paused, a lump in her throat. “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful, okay?”

“I’ll be alright Mags, we’ll talk soon, I gotta go.”

“Alright, Bye.”

Maggie hung up and closed her eyes, squeezing the bridge of her nose. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest, even as she tried to keep her mind from racing. _Make yourself scarce._

Rising to her feet, she shoved her phone into her back pocket before walking around to the back of the car. She popped the trunk and peered inside. There was the duffle that Romanoff had given her for her birthday, packed with her clothes and toiletries and other incidentals, beside it was her go-bag.

 _“You all packed and ready to go?”_ Romanoff had snuck up behind her while she was loading her stuff into the car.

 _“Yeah, I think so?”_ Maggie had responded, once she’d recovered from Natasha’s sudden appearance in the garage.

Nat had inspected the contents of Maggie’s trunk with her critical and ever vigilant gaze. _“Prepared for anything, huh?”_

 _"Never know what might happen out there.”_ Maggie had paused dramatically before a wide smile had crossed her face. _“I’ll even make sure my doors are locked.”_

 _“_ _You are learning.”_ Nat had chuckled pulling her into an embrace. _“Be safe out there, and if you need anything, you know how to get ahold of me, Steve, and Sam.”_

Maggie had thought it had been kinda stupid at the time, bringing her go-bag, but now she was wondering if it was coincidence or clairvoyance that had compelled her. _It’s the training._

_Make yourself scarce._

That’s what Sam had said. What had he meant? Did he know what sort of alarms that would set off in her brain? She wasn’t an idiot, something was going on, more than Carter’s death. If Sam wasn’t concerned, he wouldn't've told her. If Sam wasn’t worried, he would’ve been more direct than that. Sam hadn’t been able to talk freely, which meant they were being monitored, and that the person listening in wasn’t entirely friendly.

So Maggie had a decision to make. It didn’t matter what Sam’s intentions or double meanings were, she was alone out here, in the middle of nowhere, and she was going to have to make a judgment call, no one else could make it for her, not Sam, not Steve, not Nat.

_No one around to get you out of the crossfire this time._

It was a vicious little voice, but a good and sharp reminder. Something was going on that had shaken Sam up. That was more than enough reason to be on high alert. If the Avengers were involved, if the UN was involved, then Maggie had more than enough reason to want to get out from under big brother’s eye. She had valuable information, sensitive information, and she wasn’t going to be left holding the bag, she wasn’t going to be caught in the crossfire, she had come too far to be the victim this time.

_Goddamn it, and I’d been having such a good time._

Maggie shut the trunk of her car, and walked back around to the driver side, climbing in, she took several deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding of her heart.  

_One thing at a time. One step at a time. Don’t run, walk._

Turning over the ignition, Maggie knew she had to make a decision. She didn’t want to. It meant that whatever her decision, she’d have to follow through and live with the consequences.

_Am I jumping the gun on this?_

Things hadn’t gone sideways yet, but if she waited much longer, it was likely her hand was going to get forced. The mere implication was enough to put her on edge.

_Listen to your gut, but then remember your training._

Sam, Steve, and Nat could take care of themselves, and she was going to do the same. The wheels and cogs were already turning as each step of the plan she had started forming began to click into place.

George Strait started to play in the background as she drove away from the gas station, and Maggie knew what she had to do.

_Carry it as far as you need to, but not an inch further._

She’d done everything she could to rectify what had happened back in April 2014. She’d done everything she could to bring Barnes home, she’d done everything she could so that she might be able to go home. She’d dedicated her energy, her time, and her life for the past two years chasing that end. Now she could go no further.

Maggie arrived in Tulsa a quarter to seven, and by lunchtime the following day she was off the grid.

 

***

The morning air was cool and damp, and the fog and the dew still hung in the air as he walked the streets, winding his way through the open market. There were only a few vendors out this early, but he knew them well. He bought all of his produce from them, and they’d started to recognize him, asking him how he was doing and giving him good deals on their most recent harvest.

Today, his usual vendor had a good selection of Plums. “How are they? Are they good?” He asked, in the easy Romanian he’d acquired since he’d settled here.

“They’re very good. Best we’ve had in a while.” The stall owner responded, responded as he picked up a few and giving them a gentle squeeze to test for their ripeness.

It had been forever since he’d had plums, they’d been a special treat back when he was growing up, along with oranges and other fresh fruit. He liked the tartness of plums, and couldn’t wait to get them back to the apartment, washed, and then eaten.

“Give me six, thank you.” He offered what he hoped was a kind, non-threatening, smile as he paid and collected his small purchase.

It had become a sort of habit, wake up early, collect groceries and necessary items for the day, toiletries, batteries, newspapers, extra pens, and papers, amongst other things, before he returned home to read, write, or cook. He didn’t have a job, he didn’t need one quite yet, but had thought about getting one, just to be out amongst people. It wasn’t that he was comfortable around people, not really, but being out and about amongst others going on about their lives, made him feel normal. Being out of the apartment also meant that he was out of his head. He tensed at the sound of sirens in the distance.

Well, a _lmost_ out of his head. 

He waited, waited for the world to come crashing down, for the screech of tires, for the blaring roar of sirens, for the sound of armed men drawing their weapons on him.

His heart pounded at the sound grew closer, his whole body coiled and ready to fight off whatever might come.

The emergency vehicle passed and he exhaled. Trying to relieve some of the tension that had collected in his chest. He hated that. How long would it take for him to lose that edge, lose that instinctive reaction at the barest indication of trouble?

_It’s what’s kept you alive this long. It’s what’s going to keep you alive._

Then he saw it, across the street, the man at the newsstand was starring from his post, watching with active interest.

_It’s your imagination._

He looked away, waiting for the moment to pass, for the man’s eyes to wander away to something or someone else. Glancing back at the newsstand, he found the man was still watching him, his eyes boring into him.

 _That’s not good._          

Propelled by equal parts curiosity and terror, he crossed the street and made for the newsstand. The noise of the busy street roaring behind him. Noticing his approach, the man abandoned the booth, practically tripping on himself as he ran into the crowd and disappeared from view.

_That’s really not good._

But he was already there, he needed to know what was going on, needed to know what had caused such a reaction. Picking up the newspaper the man left behind, his stomach dropped.

“Winter Soldier Căutat Pentru Bombardmentul Din Viena.” _The Winter Soldier Wanted for Bombing in Vienna._

Everything fell away, the city, the sounds, the thoughts of what he was going to do for the rest of the day. Everything normal, everything human that had occupied him only moments before, dropped away as the words, and the meaning behind them sunk in.

_Oh fuck._

It was his first and gut reaction, and it did a damn good job of explaining his thoughts on the matter.

 _But it wasn_ _’t me._

That was the second thought that occurred. If he had some part in it, sure, certainly he deserved to be on the front page, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t been involved. He’d been here, buying fresh apricots and pears, making stew, and writing in his journal. It was a setup, he’d been framed. But what did that matter? Who would believe him?

_Steve._

Would Steve believe him? It didn’t matter. What could Steve do? He wasn’t an Avenger any more. That had been all over the news, he and Wilson, they’d retired rather than sign the Sokovia Accords.

_I have to move, now._

The panic, disbelief, and terror reduced to a faint hum, as training and instincts took over. The truth of the thing didn’t matter, and wouldn’t matter if he didn’t get out of here now. If the man at the newsstand was any indication he didn’t have long, hours to minutes, if he was lucky. He’d be lucky to get to his apartment and to his go-bag before some special ops team dropped on his head.

 _My go-bag and my journal._ Everything else in the apartment was secondary.

He dropped his plums in the lap of a homeless man, begging for change, and continued without stopping.

Mounting the twenty flights of stairs, he kept his breathing regulated, his ears open, and his eyes swept this way and that looking for any oncoming threats.

_Walk, don’t run. Walk don’t run._

He stopped as he reached his apartment. The door, it was open.

So he’d had less time than he’d thought. It was Steve. No Spec Ops team would be that sloppy. How had he managed it? Who had tipped him off?

_You have to run, you have to go now._

The only way was forward. The only way he was going to get out of this was if he had his bag, and that was in the apartment, past Steve. He slipped inside, shutting and locking the door behind him without a sound, all of the locks and hinges well oiled and maintained for this very reason.

Holding his breath, he walked silently toward the other person occupying his apartment. He’d mastered the art of moving silently and quietly, which made Steve, by comparison, sound like nothing short of an entire platoon of heavily armed men. Steve had always been louder than Bucky. From their childhood when Steve would be wheezing or coughing because of a combination of asthma and walking pneumonia, to his inability to properly regulate the level of his voice in the field, he’d always been noisy. Nothing, it appeared had changed.

_Bucky, you’ve known me your whole life._

Nothing had been disturbed, the room hadn’t been ransacked, and Steve moved gingerly as he surveyed his surroundings, as if afraid to disturb anything.

It looked like their first apartment. He hadn’t done it by design, but one day he’d looked around and realized that this was the closest to home he’d ever come again. He hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it. Did Steve recognize it? Did he know that’s what he had done?

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._

The man’s shoulders were broader than he remembered, but then again he’d always remembered the Steve before the serum before the world had taken him and made something else of him before the world had transformed them both into something totally beyond their control.

Steve went to the fridge where he’d carelessly left his journal this morning between breakfast and doing a quick clean up of the small, grubby apartment.

 What was Steve expecting to find? What would he expect to find if he was standing in Steve’s place? He didn’t know. Any second he would turn around, and they would be face to face for the first time in over two years. He’d done his best to stay away, to try to protect Steve from what he was, from what he’d become, yet there he was, standing in his kitchen.

_I’m not going to fight you, you’re my friend._

He wanted to tell him to run, wanted to tell him to get away, to get out of here, to get out of his life before the shit storm that was about to hit, finally arrived. Would Steve see it that way? Or was Steve ready to fight him, prepared to capture him, detain him, and bring him in for his alleged involvement in the UN bombings? Was that his purpose? Was that why he was here?

He didn’t know. He didn’t have time to find out. He had to go, had to leave, had to get as far away from this place before _anyone_ could get their hands on him.

Steve picked up the journal and cracked it open. He knew. Bucky, the Winter Soldier, James, James Buchanan Barnes knew that he wasn’t going to get that chance. His back was against the wall with only two choices, run or fight, and he’d been running for over two years now. So the only option open to him, the only option left to take was to fight. It was going to end in a fight, it always ended in a fight.

He’d have to fight Steve, have to fight the Avengers, and whatever was going to come after him.

He didn’t have a choice, he’d never had a choice. Did Steve really think that by coming here he’d be able to convince him that he’d get a fair shot, that he’d get heard out, that he wouldn’t be locked away or worse? That he _deserved_ anything other than being shot on sight? This was going to end in a fight, it was the inevitable and unavoidable conclusion to his story. He’d known that two years ago when he’d left Last Chance Ranch, and he knew that now.

So what choice was left to him? Now that he was committed to the fight before him? Would he be reduced to what Hydra had made of him? Would he maim and kill to advance his own aim? Did he have a choice?

_No one wakes up a villain or a hero, a good parent or a bad parent, a good person or a bad person. It’s the choices we make that define us, each and every day._

That’s what she’d said, Ramirez. He hadn’t thought about her, about the obituary, about her and his sister, about any of it, in months, and now, here she was, back again in his head with this idea of choice. He didn’t want this life, he’d never wanted this life, but he didn’t have a choice. But, it didn’t mean he had to choose to be what Hydra had made him.

He would make it out of this, and he wouldn’t resort to being the Winter Soldier to do it. He didn’t want to kill anyone, he didn’t want to hurt Steve, he didn’t want to be the person that everyone, the world and probably even Steve thought he was.

It was a choice, and ultimately it was the only one he had.

Steve paused in his evaluation of the apartment, a voice buzzing in his earpiece. “Heads up Cap’ German special forces approaching from the south.”

“Understood," Steve said. Closing the journal, he stopped as if he’d heard something. Then, he started to turn.

Whatever he’d wanted, whatever he’d intended, it didn’t matter he’d have to stand and face it. Bucky Barnes was out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh! So we're near the end! BUCKY! MAGS!!!! My peeps not going to lie, when I was finishing the last portion of this chapter I got the writer shakes. I'm so excited to be able to share this with you! This is one of those chapters that underwent so many tweaks. I hope you guys liked the end result.
> 
> Remember! This is the part of a series, so no matter WHAT happens next chapter, there will be more of Bucky, Mags, and the gang to come! Thanks for sticking with me through this!
> 
> Happy Reading!


	18. What Does it Mean to Disappear?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don’t Sue me! This is the sequel to 'On a Last Chance’ and is Part II of IV of my “Find Your Way Home” Series. So if you’re confused, that’s why.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Ramble On by Led Zeppelin, Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked by Cage the Elephant, The Lonely Shephard by Gheorghe Zamfir, Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd, Running with the Devil by Van Halen
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ayENXPUHtyvZCpTi38MX6?si=GFt_kIMpQBO161gRuxG96Q

She’d found it by accident. It was a little garage, more of a metal shack than a mechanic’s shop, which was precisely the kind of place that would deal in cash and not ask too many questions. It was the type of place Maggie needed.

The air was dry and hot, the only relief from the oppressive heat boring down on her was the shade of the little building, and the slight breeze offered by the creaking oscillating fan.

Once upon a time she would’ve been almost acclimated to this type of weather, but after nearly a decade of living north of the Mason-Dixon line, sweat was pouring off her. That coupled with everything else going on, she probably wasn’t fitting in as well as she wanted. Regardless, she was too far in to this to chicken out now, she’d have to see this through to the end, and whatever that meant.

 Maggie had been off the grid for over 72 hours. She’d made her way to the border the moment that Sam had told her to lay low. She’d switched out plates, and had crossed the border under an alias. Now she was trying to get rid of her vehicle, so she could disappear entirely. _Don’t run, walk._ That’s what Natasha had always told her, and now it could mean life or death.

Adjusting her backpack, and the straps of her tank top, her ears strained to listen to the news report on the radio, hungry for news of Steve, Sam, and the others.

_“The manhunt continues for UN bombing suspect James Barnes, who escaped UN custody two days ago. The search for Barnes’s accomplice Steven Roger, formerly of the Avengers, also continues. Anyone with any information has been encouraged to come forward. A reward is being offered for any information that leads to the capture of Barnes or Rogers.”_

So they’d found Barnes. Well, _she_ hadn’t found shit. The end of a two and a half year manhunt where she’d risked life, limb, and sanity, and they’d managed to flush the bastard out of hiding with a bombing. Maggie found that she couldn’t quite shake the bitter taste in her mouth. It really all had been for nothing.

_Figures._

Still, it didn’t change what had happened, or the fact that now she had to lay low until she could be sure the U.S. Government or anyone else wasn’t interested in what she knew. Better to be safe than sorry, particularly when there were Super Soldiers and a very pissed international community involved.

“Can you believe this shit? 24-hour news cycle and the best they can come up with is this fucking bullshit with the UN.” The garage owner swore in Spanish, pulling Maggie’s attention away from the radio.

“Yeah. It’s fucked,” She agreed, turning to focus her attention on the mechanic and apparent owner of the establishment approached the counter where she’d been waiting. He was a Mexican man of slight build and stature in a dirty grease smeared jumpsuit. Was he an honest man? She didn’t know, but he certainly looked like someone willing to make a shady deal with a woman who was all alone.

He gave her an appraising look. The kind car mechanics give you when they’re about to tell you that they can fix it, but it’s going to cost you. Which was, in general, not good news for her.

“So, what are you gonna give me for the car?” Maggie asked brightly before he could say anything.

This was the last thing she had to do before she could disappear entirely. It was the most important thing, and it could be a significant stumbling block if not handled appropriately. To say that she was a little anxious would be understating this.

“Best I can do is 9,200.”

“Pesos?” Maggie raised an eyebrow.

“Pesos.” The man confirmed, his expression grim.

That was about 500 USD. He was intentionally lowballing her. But that was always the case, wasn’t it? There were two options, take the offer or walk. She could always haggle, but that might attract the wrong type of attention. Still, she needed the money, and anything extra would be a big help. Maggie put her elbows on the counter and leaned forward, allowing her tank top to slide and stretch strategically. “Come on now.” She smiled wryly, “You know it’s worth double that.” She paused, making prolonged eye contact, “But I understand you’re doing me a favor.” She stood back upright. It had been a long while since she’d tried anything remotely approaching flirting in Spanish, so it felt awkward, but looking at the garage owner’s face, it appeared to be working.

Clearing his throat, he glanced around before scratching out a number out on a scrap of paper before shoving it across the grimy countertop to her.

“Cash?” She glanced up at him, with a raised eyebrow.

“Of course.”

Maggie paused, making a show of mulling over her options. She was going to take the cash, she needed the money, but it was always a good move to at least  look like you were giving it a little bit of thought. Besides, if she seemed too eager, she’d be memorable, and that was really the last thing she needed.

_Be the little grey man. Be able to get on and off the elevator, in and out of a location without anyone ever noticing you._

“We have a deal.”

He nodded, “I have to get it out of the safe.”

“Of course. Of course, take your time.” She said, backing away from the counter.

The man disappeared into a little back room, and Maggie returned her focus to the radio. It had moved onto something else, but she still listened, hoping, perhaps that by focusing all of her energy to the radio, it might give her the answers she was looking for.

Namely, what was going on with Sam and Natasha. The manhunt was on for James Barnes and Steven Rogers, and immediately after the bombing Sam had been mentioned as well, but now, Sam had disappeared from any news reports or mentions. Likewise, Natasha hadn’t been seen or discussed in the news since just after the bombing.

Maggie wanted to reach out to them, make sure they were okay, let them know that she was safe, for the moment, but she couldn’t. They didn’t know where she was, and she didn’t know where they were. It was the best possible arrangement for everyone.

This was what it meant to disappear. The lack of connection, the not knowing, the feeling that she was completely separate from the world around her, and not apart of any community or family. She had been gone a long time, so she knew disappearing was safe, but it was also lonely. Maggie knew how to be lonely, she’d been lonely a lot over the past four years, since Riley’s death, and almost more so when she’d come into the hunt for Bucky Barnes. Surrounded by people but lonely. Now not only was she lonely, but she was alone, without another soul in the world.

 However, lonely as she was, she’d rather be alone than in a government cell, or worse. Like it or not, this was the better option.                  

The mechanic returned from the little room and counted out the cash. Nodding satisfactorily, Maggie slid the keys and title across the counter toward him and collected the bills. “Thank you very much.” She said.

“You know, Miss, I wouldn’t normally ask.” The mechanic’s voice stopped her before she could turn to go. “But you’re not in any sort of trouble are you?”

Was it that obvious? She probably looked like a deer in headlights, all things being what they were. “Ex-husband’s car. Couldn’t stand looking at it, but knew couldn’t get much in re-sale.” She smiled. “Thanks again.”

Turning, she walked from the chop shop, and into the bustling streets. She turned a couple corners, and then she disappeared from view and into the crowds without a trace.

 

***

 

Bucky focused out the massive floor to ceiling windows, to the glittering vibrainium mines that spread out before them, sparkling like the night sky, and humming with the same energy and purpose of an anthill. His eyes searched the scene for a sense of order, some idea of how the people and machines knew what they were doing. It was all beyond him.

He glanced over at the Wakandan technician dressed in white who was working diligently on his left side. Had he been feeling up to it, he would’ve asked the man for further explanation of the scene going on just outside the windows. Instead, he just kept his mouth shut, his jaw clenched.

It wasn’t just the mines that were humming with energy, but the entirety of the Wakandan science and research division was filled with activity, led of course by the Princess Shuri. They had been nothing but perfectly polite, but he could tell they were all wary of him. He couldn’t exactly blame them, with everything that had happened over the last few days.

“Buck?” He looked over at Steve who had reemerged in the lab after being led away by several of the Wakandan attendants to shower and change. He was wearing civvies but looked just as tightly wound up as he had when they’d first laid eyes on one another back in his apartment in Bucharest.

 _It always ends in a fight._ He wished he’d been wrong. He really wished he’d been wrong, but now none of that mattered. The other Winter Soldiers were dead, the real mastermind of the UN bombings was in custody, the Avengers had dissolved, and he was sitting in Wakanda through the generosity and good graces of T’Challa and the Wakandan people.

Bucky winced as the technician clipped away more of what remained of the Winter Solider prosthesis, working to get it down to the attachment mechanisms and joint.

“You okay?” Steve asked, brows furrowed, concern coming off him in waves.

“The sound.” He answered shortly. Thankful that Steve couldn’t see his right hand which was gripping the examination table so hard his knuckles were a pearly white.

They weren’t hurting him, but the sensation buzzing in his spine was telling him something was wrong with the prosthesis. _It’s missing, you useless piece of shit._ He would’ve found the whole thing ironic if not for the pained expression on Steve’s face.

“Any word on what happened to Wilson and the others?” He asked, deflecting away from himself to something equally painful and uncomfortable.

“I have a heading.”

Bucky nodded. It had been over 48 hours since the fight at the Leipzig airport and little under 40 hours since their showdown with Stark had resulted in the prosthesis being blown almost completely from his shoulder. How long had it been since the bombing and the apartment, and the chase from Bucharest and the fight in Vienna? He couldn’t quite recall. He squeezed his eyes shut, it felt like a lifetime ago, a blur in his already fuzzy memory.

He opened his eyes and looked up at Steve. _'Any word from Ramirez?’_ He felt the words very nearly speak themselves, but he stopped himself. Steve looked worried and upset enough as it was, there was no need to compound it. He’d heard Steve and Wilson exchange tense words during their trip from the warehouse to the train depot. They hadn’t heard from her in over 72 hours, which wasn’t a good sign.

Bucky winced, this time he flinched nearly pulling away completely from the grasp of the technician. “Sorry.” He mumbled, focusing down on the lab floor.

He could feel Steve’s eyes on him. There were so many questions that Steve wanted to ask, so much that Steve wanted to know. They’d talked on the quinjet between Germany and Siberia, but that had been frantic, near feverish as they’d tried to grapple with what he’d gotten them into, and what they were going to come up against. Sure there had been some banter between them, some reminiscing on the past, but they really hadn’t had any time for the real questions that Steve so desperately wanted to ask. The past they could talk about, but the future, their future was uncertain.

When Bucky glanced back up at Steve, he found that Steve’s gaze had moved on, and he was watching the technician as he worked, wincing and grimacing.

Could Steve love him as he was now? Would he still love him if he knew what he’d done? He shouldn’t. Steve should put a bullet in his skull and be done with the whole thing. It would be mercy. It would be no more than he deserved.

 _What you did all those years, that wasn’t you, you didn’t have a choice._ That had been Steve trying to justify, trying to rationalize what the Winter Solider had done, versus what the man he considered his friend might have been a party to.

 _I know, but I did it._ He’d responded, and Steve hadn’t known how to react. How could he? How could even begin to reconcile what Bucky Barnes had been and what Bucky Barnes had become? Steve wanted to pretend they could go back to the way they had been in '45. No. Even before then, He that they could go back to the way it had been when they'd been stupid kids when it had just been them versus the world.

He couldn’t do it. It wasn’t possible. How could he ever be the person, ever be the man he’d once been when he’d been the Winter Solider far longer than he’d ever been James Barnes. What did it mean to be Bucky Barnes? How could he possibly know? How could he even guarantee he’d stay that way? That Hydra wouldn’t crawl back inside his head and make him their plaything again. The bastard who’d lured them to Siberia hadn’t even been Hydra. How could be sure the code words wouldn’t surface on the black market and be auctioned to the highest bidder? That’s why it was better to go back under and let the Wakandans have a go at the shit Hydra had shoved in his brain than risk another incident like Berlin.

Bucky glanced up at Steve, who was watching him. Did he know what he was thinking? Bucky certainly hoped not. Not after all that Steve had done for him.

“How are you feeling Sergeant Barnes?” The Princess, Shuri, inquired as she walked up, a small wool cap edged with leather in her hands.

Bucky’s gaze darted to Steve, who waited, breath held, for him to answer. He couldn’t let the side down, couldn’t let Steve know how much he was hurting, not after everything. “Can’t complain.” He shrugged with as much bravado as he could manage, hyper-aware of how off-balance he felt now without the arm tugging at his spine and shoulder.

“Good. Glad to hear. Your initial brain scans are back and are looking very promising. But first.” She presented the cap to him. “As discussed. We removed the damaged exoskeleton of the old prosthesis, leaving behind the attachment mechanism and joint should you opt for a replacement at any point in the future. However, to protect you and the joint, I’ve designed this. It is magnetic but won’t make you stick to anything else. It’s waterproof and will protect the internal mechanism.” She extended it to him.

He nodded, taking it wordlessly and sighed as he slid it over the numb of what remained of the Winter Soldier Prosthesis.

“Once we get you under,” The Princess continued, “I’m going to remove and replace the chip that allowed you to control the prosthesis, it’s what’s causing you some discomfort.”

Steve shot him a look.

“Nothing I’m not used to.”

That comment did not have the desired effect as a pained expression cross Steve’s face, “Buck?”

“I’m okay, Steve, I promise.” He murmured before directing his attention back to the Princess, “How long will I be under?”

“As long as it takes. This is your brain we’re talking about. What I’m going to do is create a copy of your brain, run some simulations and programs to see what works and perfect my technique before I apply it to your brain. I also want to have a number of redundancies and workarounds in place should anything unexpected happen.” Shuri explained.

“You are in good hands,” T’Challa announced his presence.

“You mean the _best_ hands.” Shuri corrected shortly.

Bucky opened his mouth to address the young monarch but was cut off by Steve, “Your highness, I can’t thank you enough for doing this.”

T’Challa nodded, turning to face him directly. “My sister, while young, is the head of our research and design labs here in Wakanda. She will find a way to remove what Hydra put in your brain.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

“Thank you for trusting us enough to allow us to perform such a task," T’Challa replied.

Trust. Right. That. Well, it wasn’t like anyone else was lining up to help out that boasted the same level of technology the Wakandans had access to. And if anyone deserved to poke around in his brain, it would be the Wakandans, particularly after what he had inadvertently caused.

He looked back up into the face of the man. They had been enemies, albeit through a _serious_ miscommunication, and now they were hesitant allies. Bucky should be worried, he should be concerned, he should be more hesitant, more resistant to going back under, to trusting T’Challa and the Wakandans to not auction him off to _whoever._

T’Challa had approached them shortly after they’d walked from the bunker in Siberia. He had Zemo in custody, and he’d offered his apology and his help.

Naturally, Steve had been wary, but T’Challa had given them coordinates and all the necessary security clearance to enter Wakandan air space, and they’d gone their separate ways. He and Steve had talked through the various pros and cons and possible outcomes.

What if it’s a trap? What if he just turns them over to Ross and the United Nations? What if they imprisoned them in Wakanda? There was an endless list of things that could go wrong. But there was also the tantalizing possibility that T’Challa was genuinely offering to help, that the Wakandans were going to help them, and that maybe just maybe it might work.

Then six hours after trying to manage a skull-splitting headache, a seizure, and what to do with the charred, twisted remains of the metal prosthesis Stark had blown from his body, they’d come to a consensus. He needed help, professional help, and if the King of Wakanda was willing to give them quarter they would take it. They didn’t have any other options.

When they had arrived, they’d been greeted by Okoye, the head of the Dora Milaje, a squad of the Dora Milaje, and the King’s younger sister Shuri. While it took a little bit of explaining, ultimately they’d been allowed to leave the landing pad and were escorted up to the Wakandan laboratories. The rest, as they say, was history.

They’d hooked him up to an IV, fluids, antibodies, and stuff to help with the pain. That combined with a long hot shower and clean clothes, he felt better than he had in a really really long time, aside from his prosthesis being blown from his body and nearly having his face kicked in by Tony Stark.

Bucky glanced back at Steve. Somethings would be much harder to heal than others. He wanted to ease the pain in his eyes, be able to make it right, but he couldn’t, at least not right now, not the way that Steve needed or even wanted.

He had to disappear again, just for a little while longer. But there would be consequences, there always were, just as there had been over the past two years. Casualties of a choice. That’s what it meant to disappear. You removed yourself from everything, yet you and everyone around you was left with the consequences of that action, consequences of the void you’d left in your wake.

“You sure about this?” Steve asked. He really didn’t want Bucky to go back into cryo. Everything about his body language screamed that. He could understand, Steve had just gotten him back, but after everything that had transpired, there would be no way for them to continue forward unless he did this.

“I can’t trust my own mind. So until they figure out how to get this stuff out my head, going back under is the best thing, for everybody.” He smiled. It was thin and forced, but it seemed to ease some of the concern that radiated off him.

Steve nodded, he was trying to be brave, they both were. If only he could make Steve smile, it might make everything seem okay, or that it might be okay sometime soon.

Steve opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the Princess who’d marched back into the lab where they were preparing him for cryo. “Everything is ready when you are, Mr. Barnes.”

“Yeah. Just a minute.” Bucky nodded.

“Of course. Take all the time you need.” Shuri nodded, retreating a fair distance to give them the space they needed.

They exhaled sharply, glancing at one another and then over at the cryo chamber that stood several yards away.

It was nothing like the set up back with Hydra, it would be _nothing_ like with Hydra. He was doing this willingly. These people wanted to help him, wanted to help reverse what Hydra had done to him.

_Is it possible?_

Bucky glanced up at Steve who was watching him with those eyes, filled with such tenderness, yet with a sadness that approached despair. Bucky had to hope, for Steve’s sake, if not his own.

“Steve.” Bucky began.

“Yeah?”

“No matter what happens, I’m going to be okay, you know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve nodded, swallowing hard, he looked at the ground, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah of course.”

“I’ll see you on the other side.”

“And I’ll be here.”

There was a pause, an anticipation of sorts as if they expected the other to say something. He knew what 1940s Bucky would’ve said, but he couldn’t say that, not yet, not right now, perhaps not ever.

Instead, Bucky looked to the attendant who was observing them. “I’m ready.”

Steve backed away as a flurry of nurses and technicians descended upon him. He rose unsteadily to his feet, feeling lightheaded, but managed to make it to the cryo-chamber under his own power. The voices of the Wakandans seemed far away as they explained what they were doing. His eyes were focused on Steve, who was watching the whole scene, his jaw grit, his face grave.

“Okay Sergent Barnes, we’re going to give you a sedative before we put you completely into cryo-stasis.” The head of the cryogenics lab explained gently, drawing Bucky’s attention away from Steve.

His heart pounded, and it took everything he had not to wrench away as they secured him into the cryo-chamber. _They aren’t Hydra, they’re here to help, they aren’t going to hurt you._ He chanted to himself, trying to keep his heartbeat even and steady.

 “I understand your worry, but we’re going to take good care of you," Shuri said somewhere out of his line of sight.

“Thanks for that.” He called out, trying to ignore how his voice shook.

Bucky turned to Steve, watching as the cryo-chamber started to close, he shut his eyes, holding the vision of Steve in his mind. _Do this for Steve. Do this to fix what you’ve done._

“Okay Sergent Barnes, breathe deeply and count backward from ten.” A voice called.

Bucky inhaled deeply as the cold air entered the chamber and the world around him disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all folks! (Until I post Ch 1 of Part III "In the Here and Now"). Thank you for sticking with me through this massively massive center section. I hope you all enjoyed it! I know the ending is sort of inconclusive [I call it my Empire Strikes Back ending](I promise this is because we still have pt. 3 & 4 to get through). We will be seeing Mags, Bucky, Steve, and even some Sam in the same room for the next bit, which is where things REALLY get interesting.
> 
> I should be posting chapter 1 of "In the Here and Now" on Saturday (if not before)! In the meantime, would any of you be interested in seeing like outlines or rough drafts (or things that didn't make it into the final draft)? is that something that people like? And where? Let me know!
> 
> ALSO! I had fan art commissioned for this Fic (and the last one!). You should check it out and give Yawpkatski the kudos and follows/likes she deserves!
> 
> https://yawpkatsi.tumblr.com/post/187901198732/commission-based-on-this-rockwell-piece-for

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading! Love to hear from you, what you thought, what you think, favorite moments and all that jazz. Subscribe, leave Kudos or even better leave a comment!


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